A Soldier's Heart and Mask
by Zavijah
Summary: The Winchesters didn't realize that when they stepped into the town of Willow's Bend that their lives would be forever changed. It starts with an unusual case they just can't ignore and leads to so much more. Dean just can't shake the feeling that the bartender, Castiel, is hiding something. WESTERN. AU!Hunter-verse. Progressing DESTIEL. Formerly Titled: A Mask Like Any Other
1. Whiskey in Hand

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Supernatural, nor the characters, nor much of anything really.

_**A/N:** After recently marathoning all of Supernatural, and eagerly awaiting the next season, I decided to satisfy my supernatural itch by writing a fanfic. Yikes! I write this for **entertainment** purposes and not historical accuracy. As a **WARNING **I will mention that there is a great likely hood of **M/M** relationship(s). Don't worry, I won't go crazy with it, I like plot more than extremely ooc mush. I'm also a sucker for angst, so happy endings are not my forte. Sorry! Throughout this story there will be situations that reflect events that happen in the series. It won't be in chronological order. I do it simply because it makes me smile._

_Enjoy!_

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**Chapter One: **Whiskey in Hand

**By: **Zavijah

"Damnit Sammy."

Palming the horn of his saddle, Dean leaned forward to take some of his weight off the ache in his side. They'd been riding for hours since the mess in Blackwater — or was it Blackhorn. He couldn't remember. All the crags and valleys they chased their quarry into blurred into the same middle of nowhere hell hole. Dean didn't really pay attention to where they were, where they had been, or where they were going. As long as the next town had a watering hole, he didn't give a damn.

"Sammy," He repeated more loudly, growling to make a point that he wanted his brother's attention. He was pretty damn sure he'd been heard the first time and could perfectly imagine the faint eye roll Sam had given in response. "We've been riding since dawn don't you think it's—"

"—We," Sam calmly interrupted, "need to get you to a doctor."

"Ah piss on that. Let's stop and I'll do it myself."

"We have nothing to disinfect the wound, Dean."

"I have that—"

"You drank it."

Dean opened his mouth to argue but paused. Oh yeah, he had drank off the last of the whiskey hours earlier. Still, Sam didn't have to say it like it was such a bad thing. "I was thirsty," spoken defensively. "And in pain."

"_I'm not_—" Sam's lips thinned, and for a moment they both rode on in mutual silence; at least until Sam's had better control of his tone. "I'm not faulting you for it. All I'm saying is that because we don't have the right supplies we need to find someone who does."

Dean grumbled, half working on another pointless remark to continue the argument but the pain in his side changed his mind; for a couple of minutes. "You know I could just —"

"No, for the last time Dean, _no_. Just – just shut up and ride."

Admittedly, Dean knew he wasn't going to win the argument - not when Sam was in mother hen mode. The cuts weren't _that _deep, but pointing that out would only set his brother off on some mumbo-jumbo medical rant. With as much as they traveled, Dean often wondered when Sam had the time to gather that kind of information. Their doctoring experience consisted of copious amounts of liquor, crooked stitching, and searing hot metal. Their needlework might be neater if less alcohol was involved, but Dean wasn't complaining. Not about that anyway. "Can we at least hurry it up, this slow pace is going to put sores on my ass."

Without waiting for approval, doubting he'd even get it, Dean urged his horse into a canter to leave Sam behind. A fresh wave of pain radiated from his side, reminding him why they had been taking it easy. He'd managed. Always did. It wasn't the worst injury he'd endured on the job. Likely it fell into the category of one of his many stupid mistakes, but he'd live to see another fight so it really wasn't worth the fuss. Not until he was dead anyway, then anyone and everyone could belly-ache until the cows came home because he sure as hell wouldn't have to listen to it while he was six feet under.

It took the better part of the day before the peaks of roofs appeared on the horizon. A simple enough town by the looks of it. Dean had seen enough in his years to find nothing special in this one. Same wooden buildings in desperate need of new paint. Same musty smell of dirt and horses. No doubt it would have the same clueless mucks milling about and getting in his way. He was just _ecstatic_ to meet them. Dean drew his horse to a slow walk, falling into place alongside his brother. Together their gazes surveyed the street, taking in anything of worth. A suit was looking them over from the awning of a store; a tall, thin man with crow's feet around his eyes. He gave them a quick smile and nod of head, but as far as Dean could tell it was done out of some sort of amusement than anything genial. Dean didn't doubt that he and his brother looked like they had just ridden out of hell. They hadn't had time to wash up after their hunt so under the dust of the road were patches of dried blood. Some new, but most of the stains were old. Dean felt it gave his duster character. It was old, beat up, and use to belong to his father. He wouldn't trade it for anything.

Dean's hazel eyes passed over the suited man - that he had already pegged as trouble - and settled instead on a woman hunched over a wash bucket. An old, withered creature with skin aged to a eerie shade of gray. If she hadn't been moving, busy trying to vigorously scrub out a stain, Dean would have sworn she was a corpse. Her eyes, one fogged nearly to the point of blindness, flicked up to his own and Dean felt a shiver crawl down his spine. He didn't know if he was simply just disturbed by her ragged appearance, or the chill was instinct telling him there was something _off_ about the old woman. Dean turned his head to catch Sam's gaze, but found his brother occupied with reading the weathered signs along the street. Tch, probably looking for the local doc. A glance back showed the old woman shuffling around a corner and out of his line of sight.

It was probably nothing.

"Sam, hold up." Dean lead his horse to the nearby hitching post. He outright ignored the disapproving look his brother gave him as he struggled to dismount. Dean couldn't tell if it was sweat or blood that was making his shirt stick to his side. He didn't look, merely tugged his duster close to hide it from view. He only had enough patience for one worrying nancy at a time. Dean rolled his shoulders and neck, easing out the tension before straightening his stance.

"Dean.." the sigh was loud and clear in Sam's tone, could just about hear the reluctance to speak the next few words. ".. what are you doing."

A familiar smile curled on Dean's lips, paired with a playful glint in his eyes. He managed to muster a half-innocent look before looking back at his brother. "What does it look like? I'm getting supplies."

Sam pointedly looked at the building in front of them, not the least bit amused. "I'm serious Dean."

The blonde-haired rider feigned a hurt look, "Me too, Sammy. No one takes this more seriously than me."

"Dean.."

But Dean didn't heed the call, already on the wooden walkway and passing through the batwing doors to step into the Saloon. Dean noted, as he quickly glanced over the interior, that this one was one of the cleaner joints he'd ever had the pleasure of gracing. It still smelled like the others, not much could cover the stench of spilled spirits, sweat, and despair. Ah, his home away from home. Dean sauntered his way toward the bar while eying the set of poker tables. Later he and Sammy would have to run a game, get a bit of padding for their pockets before heading back out on the road. They'd need to find a place to sell some acquired goods as well. The routine was the same for every town. They rarely stayed in one place more than a couple days. Anything longer and, for one reason or another, their very presence seemed to stir up trouble.

Besides, Dean couldn't imagine settling anywhere. It seemed so.. domestic.

"Barkeep," Dean lift two fingers as he flagged for the dark-haired man's attention with one hand and removed his hat with the other. "Pour me a double of your best whiskey."

The smile Dean gave was more reflex than anything else. He slid on to a stool seat and his eyes had already shifted away from the brooding look the man was giving him to eye the working girl at the end of the bar. A server, if he had to make a guess, but the cut of her skirt that likely earned her extra tips promised more. Dean gave her a nod and a smile. She was a red-head with ivory skin, and a damn beautiful sight after such a hellish week. "I don't suppose you're free tonight. I might need an extra pair of hands to help me out."

The redhead looked up, green eyes measuring him for worth - but even as she tried to remain neutral in expression, Dean caught the way her lips quirked upwards in a brief smile. Yet before she could give a response, a shot glass slammed on the polish wood in front of Dean, snaring the hunter's attention away from the woman. Dean's smile, however, didn't fade. In fact it grew, shifting into something more mocking than inviting. He directed the expression up at the bartender staring him down. It wasn't that far of a leap in logic to guess he'd somehow offended the man. Such an unhappy looking fellow too - a troubled expression, weighing under a heavily furrowed brow. The man couldn't be much older than himself. Dean snorted lightly, unimpressed and downright amused. He hadn't been in town for more than ten minutes and already he was on someone's bad side. Not surprising. Dean took the glass, swirling the whiskey around before once more directing the cheeky expression up at the barkeep. "Thanks."

"Anything else I can do for you." The man replied, his voice low and graveled like he'd spent too many sleepless nights drinking his own stock. The tone was flat, deadpan even, and no match against Dean's more expressive play on words.

"Yes, actually," Dean began, drawing out his reply to test the bartender's patience. He evenly met the man's unflinching gaze, sipping nonchalantly at his drink before continuing. "I'm looking for a room for the night and maybe some.. " Hazel eyes drifted back toward the woman, giving her an quick wink. "..entertainment."

"We're not that kind of establishment." Spoken in that same no nonsense tone.

Dean arched a brow, taking another swig of his drink. "You don't have any rooms?"

The bartender's lips thinned in frustration, "We have rooms."

"Then what's the problem?"

The dark-haired man drew in his lower lip, diverting his gaze to glance thoughtfully at the red-headed woman before looking back to Dean. "We are not a house of ill-repute. Keep your hands off the girls."

"Jumping to conclusions aren't you chief?" Never had Dean Winchester need to pay for the company of a woman. "I was just thinking the lady here looks like she might have the voice of an Angel if she were to sing."

The bartender's brow furrowed further as his dark blue eyes searched Dean's expression for any sign of ruse, or innuendo. Whatever he was looking for, there must have not been enough of it to form a solid conclusion. The man settled for maintaining steady eye contact, of which Dean met easily and waited for the other man to yield.

"Cas," The woman gently called, slowly drawing the bartender away from the stare down. Dean went back to his drink as the woman spared them an apologetic smile. She glanced between the two men before focusing on the one she'd referred to as Cas. "The man's harmless."

"Doesn't change what I said," Cas replied while settling a lingering look of mistrust on Dean.

"Can't be worse than the usual ilk." She spoke with practiced ease, as if this wasn't the first time the bartender had acted protectively over her. "I can take care of myself."

The two shared a look before Cas moved away, picking up a glass to polish with the hem of his apron. "I know."

Dean's interest in the pair was gone, having returned his give-a-damn to his drink. He downed the rest, letting it burn down his throat and settle in his gut. Whiskey was the best medicine that any man could afford. A real cure-all. He savored the smoky flavor left on his tongue. It was strong too, which meant it was an honest drink and not cut with water. Not many saloons could be held to such a high caliber. Those that could serve straight alcohol were those that could afford it. Dean was skeptical about this little out of the way place being able manage it. Not something he was about to question, because as long as he was getting the good stuff, he wasn't going to complain.

"Hey Cas," Dean set his empty drink down, the heavy glass bottom tapping purposely against the wood.

"Novak."

Dean let his brow raise to show his lack of comprehension. It took a moment of silently regarding the glowering bartender before Dean decided the man needed a little more than a look to explain the response. "Novak?"

"My name is Novak."

The man just had no social graces, Dean decided. A very literal sort, which made Dean wonder how Cas – _Novak _– had become a bartender in the first place. The man didn't have the usual personality type that Dean encountered when at the bar; namely old gray-haired men that were nothing but polite. This Novak guy just kind of irritated him; especially when apparently he needed some special privilege to call him Cas. Granted, Dean wasn't having the best day so his tolerance for the general public was dangerously low. "_Novak_," Dean pronounced carefully, the smile fading from his features so he matched the bartender's frank look. He again tapped his glass to the bar to communicate his desire for a refill. As the man moved to comply, Dean changed his mind. "Know what, just give me the bottle so I don't have to talk to you anymore."

Fishing into his pocket, Dean tossed a few coins on the counter that he considered fair payment and accepted the bottle set down next to his empty glass. It was only three-fourths full and likely wouldn't see Dean through more than a couple days. It had a nice amber color, a beautiful sight to look at instead of the dejected look the bartender wore – or was it angry; pensive perhaps. Dean honestly couldn't tell. It was myriad of different things that mashed together to make up the faint scowl-like expression that was firmly placed on the man's face. There was pain in the look, pain that Dean could relate to and that was the last thing he wanted to do; have some heart to heart about why life was hardly worth living and the world was just one long latrine ditch. Nothing but a craphole.

"Rough day?" The red-head inquired from where she continued to lean against the bar.

"You might say that," Dean smirked at the predictability of the question, and his own omission. There was much and more he didn't tell other people. "Or I might be planning on sharing with someone in the near future."

The invitation was placed and Dean was certain it was going to earn him the woman's company, if not for the creak of the swinging doors announcing the arrival of another customer. A newcomer that just happened to walk right up to where Dean was seating at the bar. Dean inwardly growled, reading the amusement in the red-head's face as by mere coincidence it sounded like he had meant he planned to share drinks with the man now standing near him. Dean didn't have to look to know it was Sam. "You have awful timing."

"Nice to see you too. Hey –" Sam's attention had gone to the bartender. "Can we get a room here?"

"With two beds," Dean interjected, perhaps a bit too quickly, because now the woman was flat out grinning at him. Great, that was just what Dean needed to finish off his night, some local yokels thinking he was some Aunt Fancy. Dean leaned into the bar, splaying fingers over the forth coming headache. "I hate you Sammy."

"Yeah well.." Undeterred by the words as always, Sam only paused as long as it took to pay the bartender for a room. "While you were being useless–"

"Getting supplies," Dean corrected while gesturing to the whiskey bottle.

"–_I_ was looking for a doctor. Found his office but he wasn't in at the time _so_.."

A faint shrug of Sam's shoulders was all Dean needed to see to finish the meaning behind the words. _So _his younger brother helped himself to the doctor's supplies since the man wasn't available. It explained why Sam was so quick to ask for a room - he wanted to move on to arts and crafts, starting with needlepoint. Dean gave his tall brother a bored look, ignoring the antsy fidgeting and simply pouring himself another shot of whiskey. "I already found the doctor."

"What?" Disbelief furrowed in Sam's brow. "I barely left you ten minutes ago."

"Sam," Dean began politely before gesturing at the confused looking bartender. "Meet Doctor Novak."

".. I'm not a doctor.."

The bartender's flat-line words went mostly unnoticed as Sam had lifted his hands, fingers pointing at his brother. Dean was certain Sam was going to snap right then and there but, as always, his younger brother managed to find that zen-like serenity from within and rein back his aggression. Such a shame, Dean would rather deal with his brother angry instead of the mothering attempts.r

Sam's hands dropped to the bar, but he was still shaking his head. "You're unbelievable."

"Calm down Sammy, I didn't say it was _your_ kind of doctor."

"Why does he keep referring to me as a doctor?" The dark-haired man inquired from behind the bar, flicking a confused look between the two men on the other side. What he earned in response was both Dean and Sam giving him matching blank stares.

Dean was the first to break the silence. He jerked his thumb at Cas while addressing his brother. "He's an idiot."

"You're just an asshole," Sam countered before turning away. He was giving the dark-haired, scuffy jawed bartender that ever predictable apologetic smile. It pissed Dean off sometimes. He never asked for Sam to apologize for him, and honestly he didn't want his younger brother doing it. He _wasn't_ sorry for what he did and often said to other people. If he said something that upset someone, it was highly likely that it was done on purpose. The truth hurt and all that crap. In his not so humble opinion, most people needed to man up and stop being a bunch of pansies.

"Is your friend okay?" Cas asked, not sounding concerned but hinting that Sam needed to escort his friend elsewhere.

"My brother will be fine," Sam grabbed the bottle of whiskey, knowing it would serve as the reins he needed to steer Dean away from the bar. "Where did you say that room was?"

"Upstairs, second door on the right."

Dean had a moment to enjoy the confused look still adorning Cas's face before a nudge from Sam had him standing from the stool. He managed to straighten up without wincing at the pain in his side. Hell, even spared a smile for the red-head as proof to himself that everything was under control. Yeah, he had just strolled into a saloon with intents on drinking himself into a coma and was attempting to start a fight with the nearest person over nothing. Completely in control.

"Nice to see you are getting along with the locals," Sam chided in the form of teasing as he joined Dean on the stairs.

Dean snorted, glancing side-long at his brother but not back at the two they'd left at the bar. "Ask me if I care."

There came no retort, but Dean wasn't oblivious to the way Sam shook his head. Dean almost started up again, but wearily let it go. He was tired - more than tired. The day just needed to be over, because anyone in his shoes would be more than a touch grouchy. He'd invite anyone else to clean out a nest of blood-suckers only to get there and find out there was more than vamps lurking there, get ripped up, lose all the holy water, and manage to let half the suckers get away. One of their worst hunts to date. Tomorrow wasn't shaping up to be any better, not when he and Sam were going to have to start the hunt all over again, starting with an empty nest and a trail gone cold.

"Give me that bottle Sam, I need it."

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	2. Scream For Me

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural, or the characters. I own the following typos and grammatical errors:

**A/N: **Yay reviews! So, as I wrote this chapter, I realized that while I have a general idea of the plot.. it's going to take me a long time to reach all those points. This story is going to be long and I hope I don't bore you the reader in the process. Review and let me know how I'm doing! Short chapter ahead. I didn't know where to cleanly break it and I wanted to give an update sooner rather than later.

**Chapter Two: **Scream For Me

**By: **Zavijah

It took several shots of whiskey, a crude wash with the shallow water basin, and a freshly stitched side, but Dean was beginning to feel better. He stretched shirtless over the thin mattress set on springs that creaked even at the smallest of movements. At the moment he was doing his best to keep still and allow Sam to continue snoring away in the adjacent bed. Despite the booze, Dean found himself restless. His fingers brushed over the sewn gashes, four of them, and his mind replayed his last hunt. It had taken months of hunting and questioning their captured prey before they had a general idea of where to find the nest. All their hard work came together when they allowed an injured vampire to escape. They tracked the sucker all the way to the caverns honeycombing through Blackhorn Ridge. Not an easy task as it had required dealing with the local tribe to get a scout to help them track through the dark of night. Dean had lost a couple bottles of his better whiskey in that deal and still wasn't happy about it.

The plan had been to wait until dawn then _coup de grace_ the shit out of the place. Dean remembered thinking it was almost too easy, but had brushed the nagging feeling aside by thinking they were just getting better at the hunt after all these years. Arrogance at its finest. God he just wanted to kick himself for being such an idiot. He knew better, and when he got a bad feeling about something he was suppose to listen to that gut instinct. Sure enough it turned out the vampire, while leading them back to the nest, had also brought them into a trap. They were ambushed shortly after arriving. The whole nest had come out for a pow-wow.

.. Only there were more than vampires in the group. In the fray he could have just been seeing things that weren't there. Yet under the slivers of moonlight cutting in through the clouds, Dean was positive he had seen teeth that were wrong, pupils that were slit. It hadn't been a glimpse. No, Dean had an up close and personal look at the freak. A black haired bitched with silver-blue eyes. She'd taken a chunk out of his side with clawed fingers and when Dean felt woozy afterwards he knew something was wrong. Maybe it was pain, blood loss, but it nearly knocked him right off his feet.

Thank God for Sam.

While Dean had been prepared to go down swinging, Sam had other plans. It was too muddled in Dean's memory to remember it clearly. There had been the thick splash of blood over his face as one of the creatures was decapitated. Then there was the smell of the lantern oil being spilt, and afterward the glow of orange circling them. Somehow Sam had found a way to set the whole damn place on fire. Then the horses were next to Dean and Sam was yelling at him. Dean had never felt so out of it on a hunt without first having his head smashed in. It was all such a haze. Might be time to start easing off the booze, because all he was hearing now was screaming. High-pitched, top of the lungs, death scream. It rattled in his ears. That's how that bitch that had ripped open his side would sound when he got his hands on her. He would make that harlot suffer..

In the other bed, Sam suddenly sat straight up.

Dean, half-asleep in his musings, struggled through the whiskey induced haze to be more conscious. "You alright Sammy?"

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the scream – the one he thought he'd been imagining mere seconds ago – sounded again. This time Sam was clear out of the bed and making for the door, grabbing his pistol from the dresser as he went. Meanwhile Dean struggled to sit up, a visible grimace on his face as he rose. The whiskey and the stitches were making their protests known against such movements. A third scream helped Dean forget his own pain, drawing him unsteadily to his feet. He grabbed the knife from his boots beside the bed and followed Sam's lead.

The first few strides were awkward, but by the time Dean gained the stairs he had found a familiar rhythm. His free hand groped the banister as he descended into the darkness of the saloon's main room. It was well into the night, nearing the morning hours, so Dean wasn't surprised to find no one around. The whiskey had been locked away in cabinets and the poker tables were cleared. Dean shifted the grip on his knife as he cautiously took the last step.

"Sam?" He whispered, loudly, and scanned the room for movement. "Sammy?"

Dean edged toward the wall, skirting along it to avoid any possibility of someone – or rather some_thing_ jumping him from behind. An orange glow flickered from the crack beneath the door to his right. Shadows of feet in the room behind neared, bare feet scuffing lightly against the wood. Dean pressed himself against the wall, the knife poised and ready. He didn't know what to expect to walk through the doorway, but a man in a long nightshirt carrying a lantern was not it. Dean had reacted before his eyes had taken in the sight of disheveled black hair and a pensively furrowed brow. He had grabbed the man's shoulder, spun him around to reverse their positions. The bartender he'd met earlier was slammed against the wall and Dean firmly pressed his forearm across the front of his throat to keep him in place. If that didn't do the trick, the knife point hovering near the man's cheek bone should do the trick.

By some miracle Cas managed to keep hold of the flickering lantern.

Dean, in full hunter mode, held the shorter man there and debated whether or not to knick the bartender's cheek just to make sure his blood ran red. He didn't particularly like the intense look Cas directed at him. No sign of fear, as far as Dean could tell, and he thought that unusual considering he had the man pinned and was angling a sharp point near his eye. What kind of _normal _man stood there as calmly as Novak was managing. A call from outside drew Dean's attention toward the saloon doors. Whatever had caused the blood-curling screams was outside and didn't involve the silent bartender. Dean flipped the knife back around, pressing the metal against the inside of his wrist, and released Cas's shoulder. No words – certainly not an apology – passed Dean's lips. His gaze remained cold, bordering on threatening, before he turned and walked away. His back to the man he deemed harmless; his back turned in a sign of dismissal.

The metal hinges of the swing doors creaked as Dean made his way on to the street. He wasn't alone. Orange globs of light were bobbing along the walkways up and down the street as various individuals curiously ventured forward to inspect the source of the noise. All the attention centered around a point just ahead of Dean. Sam was there, crouched beside a man lying motionless in the dirt. As if sensing Dean's arrival, Sam pivoted on one heel to share a meaningful glance with his brother. Dean obliged by walking closer, his hazel eyes skimming over the body. There was no visible sign of a struggle, nor any blood to identify a weapon.

"Maybe I'm too drunk, but I doubt those screams came from this guy."

"No," Sam agreed as his eyes scanned the growing crowd. "Someone must have seen something."

"Seen what though," Dean mused out loud. He crouched down next to his brother and touched at the side of the man's neck just to assure himself the man was dead. Along with no pulse, Dean noted something else. "He's ice cold. That strike you as odd?"

"A man dead outside of a saloon isn't all that unusual.. but if this just happened, he should still be warm."

Dean frowned, "Just for once I want to believe this is a normal kind of dead guy."

"Maybe he died of a heart attack," Sam humored, bottom lip pursing as he gave an uncertain shrug.

"I'm willing to settle for that if you are," Dean straightened, growing uneasy with the amount of gazes that were centered on them. He knew how easily people came to conclusions – the _wrong_ conclusions. As casually as possible, Dean slid the knife through a loop in his pants in an attempt to lower his threatening demeanor. He directed a smile and nod to one of the women that had ventured forth, clutching a shawl around her shoulders. "Hi. Nice night, isn't it?"

The woman shot him look - one of those scolding 'how could you say such a thing when there is a dead man lying in the street!'. Got all her feathers ruffling, but before she erupted in a fit, she mannerly waded back into the crowd. Dean was pleased about that, even if the smile he had been forcing waned as she left. No one was getting near the body until they, he and Sam, knew what was going on. The woman could be offended, but all Dean was trying to do was protect her. It was a thankless job. He knew it and didn't expect it to change any time soon.

"Hey Dean," Sam's voice drew the dark blonde's attention away from the crowd and back down to the body. "Look at this."

Sam had drawn back the man's eyelid. The faint light from the stars, moon, and circling lanterns were all he had to help him distinguish what it was that Sam saw as important. A white pupil stared up at him. No color of iris, no black of pupil, just a blank white glob gazing at everything and nothing at all. Sam checked the other eye, but it was the same. Dean began to frown, "So.. blind man out for a stroll and has a heart attack?"

What, he could be hopeful, right?

"Hey!" A new voice raised. "Hey - you two - hold up right where you are."

Both heads of the Winchester boys lifted to regard the scrawny youth marching toward them. The guy was still trying to latch his gun belt as he neared. Like everyone else, he had been asleep at the time of the crime and the tousled mess of brown hair verified as much. Dean's brow began to arch as he began to wonder who this little scarecrow of a man thought he was trying to boss them around when he caught sight of the dull colored star pinned to the guy – _kid's_ – stained night shirt. Sheriff – no, the Deputy. Dean was squinting at the etched letters as the youth got close. Probably was the son of the Sheriff, or something explainable like that because Dean could not imagine for one second this lanky kid was any sort of authority figure on merit alone.

"You boys mind explaining what's going on here."

Dean didn't know what to be more offended at, being called a boy, or the insinuation in the kid's voice that they had something to do with the death of the man in the street. Managing a neutral expression, Dean began to lift his hands in an expressive shrug.

"Whoa whoa whoa," The Deputy's hand lowered to the pommel of his holstered pistol. "No sudden movements. I'll warn you just this once, make any funny moves and I'll shoot you down. Now start talking."

Dean had to admit, scrawny talked a big game - very to the point - but it was just too hard to take it seriously. When spending a life facing down monsters most people didn't know existed, average day-to-day people didn't tend to register as intimidating. All the same, Dean slowly lowered his hands back to his side. "We heard the screaming and came out to see what was going on, just like everyone else."

"Don't be trying to pull the wool over my eyes - did you stab him?"

Dean glanced down at the knife tucked in his waist while silently considering the pros and cons of just knocking out the Deputy with one well aimed punch. The thought must have started to show in Dean's expression, because the Deputy's fingers began to curl more firmly around the pistol handle.

"Garth." The voice was deeply graveled, tired and whiskey burned. The bartender. Just there, suddenly, as if appearing out of thin air. He stood just aside Dean and the Deputy named Garth, not fully intervening, but his presence was felt. Cas held the lantern between them, looking down at the deceased man.

"That's Deputy Garth, Castiel." The youth rubbed his thumb against the badge, but his words had taken a turn away from confidence. He had all but whispered the words, having half turned toward the bartender to say them like Castiel had just stolen his man card.

"They had nothing to do with this," Cas plainly stated, ignoring Garth's upset.

The Deputy looked put out by the words, "And how can you be so sure about that?"

"I was reading," A vague explanation, one Castiel didn't elaborate on until after he'd finished looking down at the body. When he saw the puzzled expressions pinned on him, he appear to almost roll his eyes as he let out a short sigh. "I was awake, reading, when I heard the screaming. Shortly afterwards I heard these two men come down the stairs." He tilted his head to one side, letting that information sink in before repeating. "They had nothing to do with what happened here."

Garth's heavily frowned as he set both hands against his hips, "Well then what did happen?"

"That's for the doctor to decide," Castiel finalized before he was turning and heading toward the saloon.

Dean watched the man go, feeling a bit off-kilter that the guy bothered to stick up for him. He might have to – heaven forbid – act grateful toward him. Eh. He'd think on it. When Sam stood, Dean stepped near him to share a private word. "I say we let the locals handle it."

Sam frowned. Tch, how typical. "But Dean if this –

"–is not our business. Don't forget we're already on a hunt. Let's not get side-tracked."

"We can't just ignore this."

Dean leveled a stern look on his brother, "I am." With that said, Dean pivoted and stalked toward the Saloon.

Sam fell into step a moment later, "Dean, what is with you lately?"

"Bartender seem odd to you?" The older brother, ignoring the look from Sam and talking over any forth coming arguments, continued on with the random thought. "Seriously. It's how late at night and he's up _reading_?"

"The guy also just vouched for us, so you might not want to peg him as the murderer right away and as absurd as it is to you, some people _enjoy_ reading."

Sam might still have faith in humanity, but Dean trusted no one. His suspicion only grew to have some stranger stick up for them, for no apparent reason. People didn't do that. They were selfish, cruel, and would sell out their own family for the right gain. The question was, what did Novak had to gain by getting them off the hook. Maybe he was aiming to pin the crime on someone else. This so called doctor might be in on the whole thing. Which meant it was a human crime, not a monster one, and one less problem for him and Sam. The eye thing was odd, but there was probably some medical mumbo-jumbo reason to explain it all away. Which meant Dean had gotten out of bed for nothing. His darkened gaze settled on the dark-haired bartender. The man was idling outside the saloon, the red-head server from earlier at his side and their heads were bent toward each other, whispering. They stopped when Dean and Sam neared, both of them straightening to return the wary look.

Yeah, Dean didn't trust them.

He didn't speak until they were back up in the room. He latched the door then braced his position in preparation for an argument with his younger brother. "They're hiding something."

Sam had already sat down on his bed, but hearing Dean's tone, sighed heavily. "I thought you didn't want to bother with this."

"I don't," Dean snapped on reflex. He rolled his neck and shoulders as he reconsidered his words. Alright, fine, he would admit to himself that he couldn't get his mind off it. He still didn't care about the dead guy - he just wanted to know what that sullen bartender was hiding. "I just don't think you should be jumping to the defense of a that guy."

"And I don't think you should be fitting a noose around his neck."

Dean's jaw tensed, "Agree to disagree?"

"Agreed."

Truce accepted, Dean crawled into his own bed. His fingers once again wandered to his side, checking that his stitches were still in place. Tomorrow, while Sam would be no doubt poking around for information on the dead man, Dean was going to look into possible suspects. Starting with the man downstairs.


	3. The Unraveling Thread

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural or the characters. I own a Honda Accord.

* * *

**Chapter Three: **The Unraveling Thread

**By: **Zavijah

"Banshee."

Sam had been at it all morning, flipping through the pages of their dad's thick, leather bound journal. Along with two other old tomes that use to belong to their father, it was the only source of information they had at hand unless they wanted to write to their Uncle in Abilene. The brothers rarely chose that option. Bobby was helpful, always, but the mail system took too long and there was never a guarantee their letters made the trip. It was always better to just make the ride themselves if it was really necessary to talk to Bobby. Otherwise Dean and Sam got by on the few books that fit in the saddle bags.

Dean mixed some pieces of bacon with the last of his scrambled eggs, shoveling the generous bite into his mouth before bothering to look over at Sam. "A what?"

"Banshee." Sam's finger gently passed along the open pages. "Dad makes a brief mention of it here. It's some kind of spirit thought to be bound to certain families. They are said to appear and wail when someone is about to die."

"And this is relevant how?"

"The screaming last night, maybe it was a warning."

Dean snorted, "How dangerous."

"Well.. no, but–" Sam rose to walk the length of the room. His head bent toward the journal as he continued to read. When he reached the window he spun back around, "Says here that a powerful one can kill with a scream."

Dean chewed over that bit of information. "If that's true, why aren't we dead - or anyone else that heard it."

"Maybe it's a proximity thing?" Sam shrugged.

Setting the remains of his breakfast aside, Dean sat up from where he'd been lounging on the bed. His eyes fell to a close as he rubbed at his temples. It became part of the job description to take even the most absurd of theories into consideration. However this time it felt like they were grasping at straws. Dean let out a tired sigh before deciding it was best to humor Sam. If he didn't let his younger brother look into this, no doubt they'd spend the next few days arguing about it. When Sam got hold of something he wasn't satisfied until he had dredged up every last bit of information on the subject. "Alright. Fine. If this is a banshee thing, how do we find it and kill it."

Sam didn't respond right away, instead shifting his weight as he lowered the journal. "It doesn't say."

"Figures."

"Wait," Sam moved over, preventing Dean from doing anything more than shift on the bed. The taller brother wasn't ready to give up on the case. "I was thinking. It says this banshee is a type of spirit and all the ghosts we've ever dealt with could be destroyed by burning their remains."

"So we need to find out who the banshee might have been so we can go grave-digging?"

"Maybe, but.. " Sam began to pace again, his expressive hands moving to the thoughts in his head. "I was thinking more that if the legends say they appear for certain families that maybe there is something binding them to said family - like a heirloom that's passed down over the years."

Dean batted the idea around his head. It sounded feasible. "So you're thinking this heirloom is made of bits and pieces of great gram and grandpa?"

"Something like that."

"What do you want to do, break into everyone's house looking for something that looks suspicious."

Sam gave him a warning look, to which Dean flashed a cheeky grin. "I'd rather not get chased out of town. Again."

"Aw, come on Sammy," Dean teased, his smile growing wider by the second. "Nothing more thrilling than riding off into the sunset with an angry posse on your heels."

Sam looked at him in disbelief, then couldn't help but give a half-smirk along with a shake of his head. "Of course you'd find that fun."

Dean smiled, though there was an touch of self loathing unveiling in his eyes. A look Dean was sure to turn away from his brother. He busied himself with gathering up his most clean shirt to slide his arms into. He wouldn't deny he got a thrill out of cheating death. The adrenaline rush made him feel alive. Sometimes that was the only time he felt alive. Sam wasn't wrong to worry about him, but how could Dean tell him that he felt dead on the inside. He just kept filling that empty void with booze and women. It's been that way so long there was no turning back. If he told Sam, his brother would just worry more and _worse _– his brother would probably try and _fix _him.

"I'm going to check with the body and see if the Doctor has anything to say about his death." Sam slid into a vest and started on the buttons.

"I'll ask the locals about the deceased and if he had any heirlooms." He bent forward, reaching into his duffel to dig out a badge and toss it up to Sam. "Just in case the Deputy gives you trouble."

Sam gave a short laugh as he pinned the U.S. Marshal badge to his waist.

Dean eyed the silver star. Justice, Integrity, and Service. The owner of that badge was in a shallow grave in Texas. It hadn't been intentional, and the man had been a good one, but he had been relentless in chasing him and Sam. One day the marshal had caught up to them. The wrong place at the wrong time. Victor had walked in on the middle of Sam exorcising a demon possessing a woman's body. That bitch had kicked up one hell of a storm as she screamed for help. The man was going to shoot Sam right there, no question about it. Dean had no choice. He couldn't lose Sammy. He just.. couldn't..

"Don't do anything–"

"Stupid?" Dean finished, flipping the playful smile back on. "When have you ever known me to.." A pause and Dean glowered while pulling on his boots. ".. don't answer that."

"I was going to say don't do anything I wouldn't do," Sam lingered at the door, waiting for Dean to look up. The older brother obliged, giving Sam the eye contact he desired. Nothing was said. There was enough being communicated through the look alone that any words would just shatter the moment. Also, talking would have just made it uncomfortable. It was bad enough Sam was looking at him like he wanted to say a hundred heart-felt things before leaving just in case he didn't come back.

Dean smiled, a bit stiffly, then adverted his gaze. "See you later."

Standing, Dean crossed the room to watch Sam descend the stairs and leave the saloon. About damn time. Dean quickly ducked back into the room and finished dressing. He already had a plan in mind this morning and he was certain it fell into the category of stupid in Sam's book. Well, someone had to do it and Dean wasn't going to be able to focus on much of anything until he had checked out the bartender. Soon he was heading downstairs. He glanced at the door nearest to the bar, the one Castiel had come out of last night. It had to be where the man slept and where Dean was going to find.. hell, he didn't know, a black altar and summoning symbols? Something – _anything_ – that linked the somber man to last night's death.

Dean walked past the door. The saloon wasn't full, but there were a couple early noon customers present. The red-headed server from before mingling about and the bartender was in his designated position behind the bar. There was no way Dean was going to be able to sneak inside that room without getting noticed. Later, Dean promised himself, later he'd find the right moment or cause the right distraction. For the moment he stepped up next to an older man already seated at the bar. Under a well worn hat, the man's hair was long, gray and looked more like the frayed bottom of a straw broom than a proper head of hair. Dean assumed, considering the hour, the man didn't work anymore. Just spent his life one day at a time with plenty of whiskey to help numb the ache of remembering the good old days.

"Hey Doc," Dean leaned slightly over the polished bar, making sure to snare Castiel's attention. "Pour me up some of that medicine, if you'd be so kind."

The old man next to Dean looked up and lifted a shaky hand to signal for a refill.

Dean smiled before gesturing to the stranger's glass, "His drink is on me."

"Thank you," The man's voice was as unsteady as his hand.

Dean merely nodded; it was only proper manners to buy the drink of the man next to him. He'd been in enough saloons to pick up on it. If it also happened to make men more willing to talk, that was just coincidence. Dean set an elbow against the wood, managing to resist watch Castiel's movements like the damn suspicious hawk he emulated. He waited until his drink was poured before striking up a conversation with the old man. "You know the man that died last night?"

Widened eyes turned up to Dean, "Someone died?"

Nearly choking on his first sip, Dean set his glass back down and muffled a cough. He glanced at the bartender and could have sworn he saw a smirk on the damn man's face. Dean's jaw clenched, but he forced himself to look back at the old man. He nodded. "Last night. You didn't hear the screaming?"

"I didn't hear nothing."

Dean paused, his hazel eyes flicking to the side in thought before he had to verify. "You mean you heard nothing."

"That's what I said."

Right, so the man he had bought a drink for was totally useless. The way he continued to stare at him through glassy eyes showed how far the old man was in his cups. If he wasn't at least half drunk, than his mind was half gone. Dean flashed a thin smile, trying to mask the way his own gaze widened slightly with exasperation. The look settled on Castiel and instantly hardened. He'd been attempting to avoid conversing with the man, but it seemed he had no other option at the moment. Dean lifted the whiskey to his lips, savoring another sip as he mentally shuffled through some words in hopes of forming a string of them together that didn't immediately sound hostile.

Even with his best intentions in mind, what came out of his mouth was not what he'd been aiming for. "Why were you up so late last night?"

The dark-haired man didn't so much as flinch at the accusation ringing clear as a bell in Dean's voice. Instead he settled a patient, unwavering gaze on Dean. It was uncomfortable and Dean couldn't pin point why it made him bristle. Those eyes, a shade of dark blue that Dean couldn't name. He'd never seen the ocean to compare them to, and rivers didn't even run that blue. Sapphires, he decided, they were richly hued sapphires. The gaze was piercing, cold yet filled with so much that Dean couldn't describe. He didn't like the way they seemed to bypass his public mask and gaze right into his very soul. Yet all Dean could do was stubbornly stare right back at the man. He refused to yield.

Castiel was the one to break the gaze, briefly glancing out toward the street before returning the piercing look on Dean. His words came out as plainly as all the others. "Am I being interrogated?"

"No," Dean couldn't help but smile, a cruel twist of his lips as he recalled the monsters that had been subjected to his brand of interrogation. "If you were, trust me, you'd know."

Perhaps winking at Castiel was pushing his luck, but Dean couldn't help it. He wanted to see something make the bartender uncomfortable. Anything to break the monotone words, or rattle the man out of his stoic composure. It did serve to make Castiel look elsewhere, giving Dean a small moment of reprieve from the intense stare down. "As you heard last night, I was up reading."

"What were you reading?" Maybe some old tome detailing how to summon and bind a ghost to do the dirty work?

Whatever the book was, Castiel didn't appear eager to reveal the title. Suddenly the bartender's eyes were on anything but Dean. The hunter's suspicion was aptly fed. Castiel picked up a dirty glass to wash, using it an excuse to move away from Dean. "Why do you want to know what I was reading?"

"I'm a big reader myself," Dean lied easily, but one look at him was enough to conclude that he was not the book type. His smile renewed in vigor, knowing Castiel didn't believe him for more than a second, but damn if the man was going to call him on it. That would be rude. Dean downed the rest of his whiskey. "Just making friendly conversation otherwise."

Once again Dean found Castiel's weighed gaze resting on him. Dean's discomfort manifested in the form of his finger tapping against the rim of the empty glass he held. Right, so short of throwing Castiel up against the bar and demanding an answer about some unknown book title, Dean was certain the bartender wasn't going to freely offer up the information. Dean would just have a look-see for himself. Later. "So who was the man that died?"

"Chester Owens," Castiel readily answered, seeming relieved at the change of topic. "Husband to Susan Owens and father to Gene Owens who owns the barber shop."

Dean made mental notes of the names, not knowing if the information would be useful. It didn't sound important to him at the moment, but that might have more to do with him wanting to know what the bartender was hiding and not a local's geneology. Dean was more inclined to be paranoid that Castiel was trying to subtly urge him out of the saloon to go talk to the wife or son. He rolled his wrist, watching the drop of left over whiskey circle the bottom of his glass. "How are they taking his death?"

"Poorly I would imagine," came the dead-pan response.

The corner of Dean's mouth quirked upward in an amused smirk. The hunter didn't know what to find more humorous about the short answer. It was hard to tell if Castiel was being dryly sarcastic, or dead serious. Either way, Dean felt amused at himself for expecting to get a more thorough answer from the man. "He have any enemies?"

"You ask a lot of questions," Those too-blue eyes burrowed into Dean's hazel orbs, searching for a hidden purpose behind the inquiries. After a moment Castiel turned his attention back to the wooden bar, fetching a rag to clean off a ring of alcohol. "He was a devout man. Went to church every Sunday, never uttered a foul word in the presence of a lady, only took drink with his meals. Never gambled. Chester kept to himself. It would be a strange thing to think he had enemies."

Dean carelessly shrugged, "Maybe someone didn't like him because he was a good guy."

"That's absurd."

"People can be jealous about strange things," Dean offered and watched Castiel's expression grow thoughtful. "And a man's character and his reputation can be two very different things. For all we know, he went home after church and beat his wife."

"You shouldn't speak ill of the dead," Castiel growled.

Dean wet his lips, trying not flat out smile at the bartender's ire. He had obviously pricked at a nerve, but why it made Castiel bristle was a question left unanswered. It could be one of several things, or a mix of them all. Dean was leaning toward mommy and daddy issues. He made a mental note of it in case he needed a bit of verbal ammunition against the stoic bartender at a later date.

"Chester was a friend," The old man had suddenly tuned in to the conversation, speaking absently as he tried to focus on Dean's profile. "We rode west together to try our luck at pan handling. Chester once found a gem as big as my knuckle. Made it into a fine necklace and gave it to Susie when he asked for her hand in marriage."

That was, uhm.. nice. Dean gave the old man a slow nod to acknowledge his words. This whole thing felt like one big dead end. Dean wasn't even sure what he was suppose to be investigating. Sam's talk about a banshee was all theory with no solid evidence. What they should be doing was heading back out to Blackhorn to see if the vampires, and freaks, had left any sort of trail. Hell, even hop over to the next town to see if there was any case of missing person. Chasing after ghosts was never fun. He'd rather find a vampire to cut into; at least they bled.

"Where might I find Mrs. Owens so I can pay my respects?" The question was directed more at the old man than Castiel. Dean could see, even out of the corner of his eyes, that the bartender was giving him another suspicious once over. He was annoyed by it, but he really couldn't blame the man. If Dean ever ran into himself, he wouldn't be very trustful either.

"The church, maybe." The old man offers, "At home." A wistful smile spread across the man's face as his mind changed gears. "Susie use to make the best black berry pie. She would save me a piece back then - before Chester and I had our falling out. Hey–"

Dean suddenly found his arm seized. A desperation began to creep into the old man's eyes.

"–You'll give her my condolences, won't you? She don't like seeing me come around. Tell her I never meant for it to happen. I'd give anything to take it back."

"I'm sorry," Dean cut in on the man's ramble, steeling himself against the onslaught of the man's stream of bad breath. "What's your name?"

"Theodor. Teddy, she use to call me Teddy. Tell her Teddy is sorry."

"Sure thing," Dean pried the man's hand off, glancing up at Castiel as if to ask what the hell was that all about. Dear God, Dean hope he died well before the whiskey burned out his sanity. If a monster wasn't kind enough to do him the honors, he'd do it himself. Dean straightened his sleeve and shifted away from the bar and made for the doors.

"You should see the doctor." Castiel commented from out of the blue.

The bartender must have noticed the stitches last night. Dean stopped just before the swing doors to glance over his shoulder, "You fixed me up just fine."

The next moment Dean was gone, squinting against the harsh sun as he strode across the road. He had no particular destination in mind other than wanting to get away from the crazy old coot. Maybe Dean would check out the recent widower. There had been mention of pie and Dean couldn't remember the last time he had a good slice of pie. Although he decided he couldn't go it alone. Later he'd entice Sam to the idea so that his brother could play the role of sympathizer and Dean could eat pie in relative peace. It was a great partnership he had with his brother.

About three buildings down from the Saloon (which Dean only now noticed was called Raven's Roost) the hunter came to a slow stop. He briefly glanced over other visible sign. A few were too worn down by the elements to properly decipher. Other places had script written on the window - slightly chipped in places. The town felt worn down, or on its last legs. Dean hadn't received any sort of strange welcoming, other than bartender being protective over the serving girls, so the town had to get decent enough traffic even if it wasn't part of the growing railway. Dean gradually turned, taking in what he could see of the town. He could tell there was a large house, not quite a manor but big all the same, on the far end of town. There had to be something here that kept the place from becoming another ghost town. To his right, between the barber shop and something Dean imagined to be a tailor shop, he saw the woman.

_The_ woman.

The same one he had seen when first entering town. Her muddied shall fit more like a dress around her hunched figure. Her hair was still matted and wild. Dean didn't have to see her face to know she'd have one blind eye. Sam's earlier words came back to him. Banshee. What did a banshee even look like? The old woman appeared as if she kept a home somewhere out in a cave, like a witch might keep to avoid any prying eyes. Currently the woman (Dean was tempted to call her a hag) was hobbling along, carrying a burden of linens in her arm as she moved through the alley.

"This town is just full of crazy."

Curious, or once again just downright suspicious, Dean casually strolled through the narrow space between buildings. He cautiously peeked around the corner at the other end, but the old crone was gone. A scrawny looking dog looked up from where it was curled below a window. Other than that, the back street (really just a bunch of adjacent unused space) was lifeless.

"Dean."

He nearly jumped out of his skin. The hunter whipped around, shoulder knocking into the side of the barber shop and he ended up pressing himself flat against the wall. He stared in the direction of the voice. A tall figure stood at the far end of the narrow gap. "Sam." Dean replied, forcing his voice calm as if he wasn't plastered to the wood behind him. "What are you doing?"

Sam gave a familiar amused snort, "I was about to ask you the same thing."

"I was uh.. looking," Dean nodded, thumbing towards the back street before he began to pick his way toward Sam. "Thought I saw one of those Daly Gang thugs lurking. Turns out - just a dog."

"Right.. " Sam never really played along, or really caught on that Dean was trying to drop the topic. Instead his brother's eyes shifted to the shops on either side. ".. you weren't going to actually break into places, were you?"

"No!" Dean snapped - a bit too hastily which nullified his attempt at innocence. He took the finally step, emerging on the boardwalk next to his brother. He brushed off his sleeves before meeting the prying stare his tall sibling was honing in on him. "Well not these places anyway."

"Dean!"

"Shut up," He straightened his shirt before casting a look around them. "What did the doc have to say."

"Not much," Sam took a leading step. Dean adopted the same pace. "Chester Owens - that's the dead guy - was not born blind so the doctor is baffled about what happened to his eyes. He's never seen anything like it, so whatever this is, it's the first one."

Which insinuated there would be a second one; these sort of unusual deaths rarely happened just once.

"No wounds to explain his death and when I asked if he was going to do an autopsy you would have thought I asked him to burn down the church. So if we want to rule out heart attack we're going to have to arrange some alone time with Mr. Owens." Sam shoulders didn't so much as shrug as slump. Clearly he was disappointed in his lack of gathered information. "Did you find out anything?"

"Yeah," A wide grin spread across Dean's face, "Mrs. Owens makes pie."

Sam grunted, "Anything useful?"

"That _is _useful." Dean searched his memory for an answer that would appease his brother. "He was a god-fearing man that had no enemies." He voiced expressively. Tch, the day he met a good man - a really _good_ man - would be a day indeed. "We should ask his wife if he had any enemies, she would know better than anyone else."

"You're just hoping for pie." Sam drawled, equal parts amused and interested.

"Hey, you want to solve this mystery or what?" Dean turned on Sam, watched his brother try to find a way to be stubborn, but eventually cave to the desire to dig up more information. Dean nodded, the hints of a victorious smirk edging upward. "That's what I thought. Let's go pay our respects."

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Read? Curious? Review!

**A/N: **Thank you so much for the reviews guys! It keeps me writing! (hi vuvu! yes, you must properly stalk!) **Blurb: **When I first came up with the idea for this fanfic, Castiel was cast for the role of Doctor. I'm still not sure how he ended up a bartender instead. And what was with that old man. I really only put him there to show that other people were in the saloon. Instead that old man decided that he had the right to further add himself to the story. Give characters an inch and they take a mile!


	4. River of Lies

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural or the characters. I like Mac n'Cheese.

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**Chapter Four: **River of Lies

**By: **Zavijah

"Thish ish delishous."

It wasn't blackberry, but it was still one damn good piece of pie. There was no such thing as a bad pie unless someone broke the cardinal rule: only fruit belonged in a pie; nuts were also allowed. The kind Dean was currently shoveling into his mouth was what Mrs. Owens called blueberry-rhubarb. It was tangy, sweet, and tasted absolutely divine on his tongue. The older hunter grinned, his purple stained lips spreading wide as he looked at his brother. Sam didn't return the gesture. Hell, the guy had yet to even touch his own slice of heaven. Sigh. His little brother always had a hard time enjoying the simple things in life.

"Thank you for the hospitality Mrs. Owens," Sam was saying, ignoring Dean's boyish delight. "I'm sorry for your loss. Chester's sudden passing must have come as a shock to you."

"Yes and no," Susan Owens weakly smiled. The puffy quality around here eyes revealed her recent grieving. "We always knew that living out here would be hard. He could have just as easily died from a head cold or getting caught up in a shootout. At least I still have my son, Gene, and he's promised to take me in.. although I would hate to intrude on him and his new wife."

"Sammy you've got to try this pie."

"Sorry," Sam pointedly ignored Dean's earnest comment. "You said shootout? I thought this was a quiet town."

"It is now, we use to get terrorized every other day by a band of desperados."

"One day they just stopped..?" Sam inquired.

"Well yes.. I guess they did. I'd assumed they moved on to torment some other town."

Sam had other thoughts on the mysteriously vanished gang, ideas that he tried to communicate to Dean through a look but as soon as he made eye contact with his brother, Dean pointed down toward his untouched piece of pie. "You going to eat that?"

Dean paid no mind to Sam's frown, a common enough expression on younger brother's face, and refused to take back his ill-timed request. He watched with keen interest as Sam's fingers descended to touch the edge of the plate. One second passed by, two, three, then Sam was sliding the plate – away. Dean's jaw tensed and he lifted his hazel eyes to dagger a glare on Sam's profile. He slowly raised his fork, curling his fingers around the tarnished utensil in a firm grip - a weapon ready to be brandished in the war his brother had just started. Sam had probably only meant to try and force Dean's attention onto the conversation. But he shouldn't have involved the pie. That mistake would cost Sammy.

Fine. _Fine_. If Sam wanted him to participate in this coma-inducing conversation, Dean was going to make Sam regret it. Swallowing the last bit of the pie lodged in his mouth, Dean calmly set his fork down and turned to regard Mrs. Owens. "Where's the necklace?"

He firmly kept his attention on the woman, not even blinking as both her _and_ Sam snapped startled looks on him. The woman sent a confused glance at Sam before once again staring back at Dean. "I beg your pardon?"

"You loved your husband, right?" Dean waited the long moment it took for the woman to finally nod her answer. "He gave you a necklace, a very nice necklace. Maybe you don't wear it because you're afraid someone might get the idea to steal it from you, but the shirt you're wearing."

The woman, staring with bugged eyes, lifted a hand to rest her fingers against the bare skin of her throat when Dean gestured to the open space between the modest opening in her shirt.

"You were wearing something this morning, weren't you," He didn't wait for a response this time, instead seizing his fork and pointing it at the frazzled woman. "So I'll ask again, where is the necklace?"

Mrs. Owens's hand closed in around the air where the necklace must have rested below the hollow of her throat. Her mouth opened and closed at intervals, but no words came out. She was too well-mannered to demand they leave - her husband likely was the one that handled the confrontational matters. It was villainous of Dean to be so crass with her, but it wasn't her that he was trying to rub the wrong way. Sam, who had yet to remove his incredulous stare from the side of Dean's face, was the intended audience. Dean expected him to snap out of it and begin profusely apologizing on Dean's behalf. Instead the woman's stilted voice broke the silence.

Her face was downcast in shame to hide the tears beginning to well, "I sold it."

Sam snapped to attention. His brows peaked together in puzzlement, "Your husband passed away last night, and you sold the necklace he gave you this morning?"

"You have to understand," Mrs. Owen's voice came out softly. "We have debts. I don't want my son inheriting them and ending up in the same position Chester and I were in - I was offered a deal. I feel my son's future is more important than a necklace."

Sam shifted closer to Dean to murmur, "What kind of bastard makes a widow sell her valuables before her husband is even in the ground?"

Dean shrugged, reaching around Sam's arm to snag the small plate of pie. He smiled pleasantly as he dragged it over to himself. The fork descended and once again Dean was disinterested in the conversation. The woman he had upset was Sam's responsibility. The rest of the conversation was tuned out. Mostly. The older hunter still picked up on something being said about an old country trader. Even with the pleasurable taste of blueberries on his tongue, Dean grimaced. Old country meant some pompous cock that Dean would no doubt want to bust the nose of by the end of the night. With a grumble another forkful of pie was crudely shoved into his mouth. The conversation droned on without any further input from Dean. His second piece of pie was long gone by the time they left.

As soon as the door to Mrs. Owen's house closed, Sam's fist impacted against Dean's upper arm. The older brother recoiled, grasping his wounded limb even if the pain was fleeting. Not even registering by the time he settled the glare on his counterpart. "Ow! What was that for?"

Sam looked stern, but said nothing.

"How about a _thank you. _A little gratitude would be nice. I only just found a possible motive for murder."

Sam swung again, but this time Dean was quick enough to dodge it. He countered, pulling his tall brother into an awkward headlock. It wasn't easy. Sam bucked about like a wild colt. "Say thank you." A muffled refusal sounded through his arm. Dean tightened the hold as his boots fought for purchase in the dirt. "Say it!"

Their scuffled brought them out into the street. Dean was reduced to hoping along on one foot. Sam had captured the other in an attempt to tackle him. Instead Dean kept a firm grip around Sam's head to keep upright. He was enduring weak hits to his sides as Sam refused to yield. Each hit came with a grunted word. "For. Taking. My. Pie."

"Gentlemen."

Both men stilled - stubbornly keeping a grip on the other - and canted their heads up to view their audience. The red-headed server from the saloon smiled boldly at them both. Dean's hazel traced down the shape of her legs, disappointed to not find her in the hiked up skirt he'd seen her wear while working. The woman, noticing his wandering gaze, arched a brow. Her smile remained confident, "Having troubles?"

Dean's arm eased from around his brother's neck, "I was just showing Sammy here how to–"

And suddenly he was staring up at the crisp blue sky unable to draw in a proper breathe. He sucked in the air, feeling nothing in his lungs. Above him two faces hovered far away, standing on legs as long as stilts. The air was knocked out of him from the fall, and his head was swimming from the sudden change in perspective.

"Nicely done," The woman complimented before giving Sam an appraising smile.

"Yeah - Thanks." Flashing a thinner smile, as if embarrassed, Sam quickly doubled, seized Dean's hand, and hauled his older brother back into a vertical position.

Dean gripped Sam's forearm to keep balance. His breath came in short, stuttering gasps. Each one burned on the intake. It took him a moment to regain all of his composure. All the while he was faced with the red-head's amused smiled. Dean scraped together his pride, lifted his chin and firmly patted Sam's arm. "Good job Sammy." The words came out strained. "Just like that - yup."

He was so going to kick Sam's ass later.

"And how are you today, Miss..?"

"Please, call me Anna."

"Anna," Dean felt his confidence return. He smiled wide and what he'd been once told was a charming fashion. His hazel eyes tracked once more along the woman's body. He'd noticed she wasn't in working attire at the start, but now he saw that instead a modest dress she wore pants. It was an unusual - at least as far as social norms were concerned. Dean had met his fair share of different women, and the ones that wore pants, usually packed a gun and a hell cat attitude. What didn't quite match the wild fire image Dean was creating in his mind about Anna, was the small hand basket she was carrying. A red flannel cloth covered the contents from view. He was just riling himself up to be suspicious when Anna noticed, once again, where his eyes had wandered to; she flipped the cloth backwards to review the half dozen muffins inside.

"I'm on my way to see Mrs. Owens. It seems you two beat me to it."

"Yeah," Sam replied while easing back a step. "Paying our respects. We were just leaving though so –"

"–off to see some trader," Dean added, for little other reason than wanting to have more control of the conversation - and by default Anna's attention.

The woman's eyes flickered with something, interest perhaps, but it was there and gone before Dean could grasp it. He was more taken in by the gentle curve of her lips as she spared a smile just for him, "What trader is that?"

"A... mister.. uhm.." Damnit.

"Roché," Sam supplied on cue.

This time Dean was certain he saw Anna's green eyes sharpen, there in the vivid depths the gears were rapidly spinning with thoughts left in silence. She adverted her gaze, glancing down at her basket as she fixed the cloth to once again cover the freshly baked muffins. Dean's smile momentarily waned before doubling in force. His head playfully canted to one side, "Do you know him?"

"Me?" One word and Dean already knew the next words out of her mouth would be a lie. Anna didn't notice her mistake. "I guess I know just about everyone in town by name, but if you mean do I know him personally, the answer is no."

Dean held his gaze on her - wishing that for once he could just look at someone; watch until something inside of them swelled and burst open to let the truth came spilling forth. He hated being lied to - worse that he knew a person was lying to his face and he wasn't going to do anything about it but pleasantly smile. Oh he knew that people lied. Constantly. Anna wasn't the first woman to lie to him, nor would she be the last. Dean had just been hoping, for some damn reason, that she would be different. He wasn't yearning to make a connection, but it would have been nice to have had something uncomplicated for once. Dean had too many secrets in his life. He didn't want to deal with someone else's closet of skeletons.

"Well," Dean nodded politely. "Have a nice day."

The older hunter turned with a somewhat confused brother trailing along at his side. Sam's brows were creased in a painstakingly familiar show of concern, "That was sudden. Normally I can't pry you away from a woman until you've arranged some midnight rendezvous."

"She's lying to us Sammy. Everyone in this damn town is lying right to our faces and I will bet you that this son of a bitch trader is going to be a king of liars. I'm about fed up with this town and I haven't even been here a full day." His fingers passed through his honey-blonde hair in frustration. "I get the little lies, but no, this is something bigger. There is something going on here that I just can't put my finger on. I tell you what Sammy, I'm about ready to set this whole place on fire to smoke out the truth of it."

Sam's hands lifted in a calming gesture, "Alright. How about I go talk to this Roché guy and you can go back to the room and see if you can find anything else written on banshees?"

The offer did well to cool Dean's heels. The older brother considered the options, but it was no surprise that he eventually nodded to Sam and they parted ways. Sam headed toward the large house at the edge of town while Dean returned to the saloon. He needed to wet his whistle before he delved into any books. His eyes widened. Suddenly he was reminded of his question toward Castiel early that morning. He didn't know why the raven haired bartender was reluctant to reveal what his late night reading material included, but Dean was certain to find out.

* * *

Read? Curious? Review!

**A/N: ** Asialisek! You haven't watched Supernatural? And you are reading a fanfic based on it? You're crazy! In that light, I am honored that you are reading it. You will really have to let me know how I'm doing. I've always felt writing fanfiction is like using a crutch. I get to skip all the detailing because people who have watched the show already know what the characters look like, how they sound, and generally how they behave. The readers often do all the hard work for me. And egads, if you are an old fan from my old stories.. that was six years ago! It's insane. And make me giggle with delight.

Rei! You are the best cheerleader. I know you sort of asked about demons - don't worry. I adore Crowley, so no doubt there will be demon love. All in due time ;3

**Blurb:** Supernatural seems a hard area to break into as far as reviews go. I think I lose audience a bit since I don't rush to the "good" stuff. Don't worry! It's coming. I don't know when - but no need to rush it! Delayed gratification, right? This is a short chapter to keep the updates going. More to come!


	5. And Cracks Begin to Show

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural or the characters.

* * *

**Chapter Five: **And Cracks Begin to Show

**By: **Zavijah

The front room of the store had been normal enough, the walls lined with furs and other basic trading supplies. Mundane. Nothing on the tables would have lead Sam to believe the owner dealt in anything remotely high brow. Yet there was no sign of Mrs. Owen's necklace. A small curiosity. One that drew Sam into wondering if a majority of Roché's trades occurred behind closed doors. There was no other way to explain the size of the house beyond the front room. It hadn't been Sam's original intention to scope out the man's home, but since there was no one attending the front desk.. well, Dean wasn't the only Winchester with bad habits.

Sam wanted answers to the questions burning on the tip of his tongue. It was something of a curse. Once he caught wind of something that even brushed at his sense of curiosity, he couldn't leave it alone until he'd exhausted every resource to gather information on the subject. He need to know the whole story. This so-called pursuit of knowledge was one of the reasons Sam was currently exercising one of his lesser known skills. From where Sam crouched in front of a closed door, a soft click emitted from the keyhole. Nearly inaudible but Sam casually looked around the empty shop to assure his solitude. He slid the lock picks back into the leather case and tucked them neatly into his vest.

It marked the second door he'd picked since coming to town. He didn't feel like a hypocrite telling Dean not to break into people's homes. Not really. The difference was that his brother – and he loved his brother – Dean just.. had no sense of subtly. While Sam could slip in and out of a house without causing trouble, his brother would probably end up burning a house down on accident. Or on purpose. There were some things Dean was good at, and the other things, well.. Sam just picked up the slack in those areas. He didn't mind. They'd been working together for so long, brothers even before they were hunters. It was all just second nature to him by now.

Honestly, most of the time, Sam felt like he was the one taking care of his brother and not the other way around.

Sam eased into the darkened room beyond the door, pulling it closed behind him. He expected shelves of pantry goods stacked to the ceiling and caked with dust. What he stepped into was something more reminiscent of a museum than a trading post. Items were neatly lined on walls, tables, and some were even encased in glass. Sam had the distinct feeling that touching any of the objects was against the rules. He found himself tempted all the same, maybe even more so. There was a small collection of pistols set against a drop of red velvet. The deep color brought out the red tones in the wood. Maple, if Sam had to put forth a guess. Sam began to reach for the stock that seemed to glow from a recently oiling.

"Beautiful, aren't they?"

Sam retracted his touch, but didn't turn. He could feel the presence of someone standing behind him - off to the left - but perhaps what was most alarming was that he hadn't heard the man coming. He was just there, as if he had been there all the time; speaking amiably, even though he had to know Sam had broken into the house.

"I've always been an admirer of flintlock pistols," Came the accent words. An Englishman. "Completely unreliable in a fight, but during its time it was one of the most advanced devices the common man could own," The man, as Sam could only guess was Mr. Roché, casually closed the distance with two steps. He reached around Sam, curling his fingers around the handle of one of the larger pistols. He eased back, handling the gun with care as Sam slowly turned around to face him. "This one is called Bounty."

There was something playful in the man's words that made Sam uncomfortable.

Mr. Roché smiled, deepening the crows feet around his eyes. His face was weathered, not aged, but showing the tell-tale signs of someone who had spent a lot of time on the open range. It didn't quite match the immaculate, tailored suit he wore. The jacket was buttoned, a shade of slate gray with black buttons. It hugged Mr. Roche's slender frame. Beneath the neatly pressed jacket Sam could see the top button of the collared shirt was carelessly left undone. "You can imagine how it got its name."

"Favored by bounty hunters?" Sam ventured an educated guess.

"Yes," The man smiled, pleased by Sam's reply. "Yes, that's right. The longer barrel offers better accuracy for long distances. Quite handy if you ask me." Mr. Roché casually drew the hammer back, deftly cocking the gun. Even if Sam knew it wasn't loaded, let alone it was missing the necessary black powder, the sound alone made him absently swallow. "I've never known a bounty to stay still for very long. They're always running away, wouldn't you agree?"

"I would run too if someone was trying to shoot me," Sam replied without allowing the silence to stretch on for too long. Stalling would suggest he had something to hide. Which he did. Call him suspicious, but it felt like Mr. Roché was angling to try and make him trip up on himself. The conversation wasn't anything out of the ordinary, but there was an subtext to what the man was communicating and Sam was fairly sure he didn't want to find out what the Englishman was aiming for.

.. aside from directly at his chest with the pistol called bounty.

"So what can I do for you," Click. The trigger was pulled, bringing the flint and hammer against the frizzen. A couple of sparks came to life, fading just as quick. Sam flinched, unable to curb to the reaction. There was no black powder to further the ignition; to send up a plume of smoke like a wispy cloak of death. It was, at least to the tradesman, all just an amusing gag. Sam was not laughing. "I have a feeling that you're not here to barter over furs."

"No, uhm.." It took Sam a moment to recover from being fired at - even if it wasn't loaded. "Are you Mr. Roché?"

"Yes. Balthazar if you want to be friendly. Balthy if you want something more."

Sam stumbled over his words, "I - well - Balthazar, like one of the three wise man?"

"Yes," Another smile. Balthazar's features were expressive, as was his voice, even if for the most part it was focused mainly around some underlining amusement. "And you are?"

"Sam."

"Sammy. A pleasure to meet you."

The tall hunter once again swallowed, feeling decidedly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of Balthazar's light blue eyes. Sam may have been taller than most men, a head taller than even his brother. He could stare impassively down at most people, and the only ones that could make him feel small were the rare few monsters. Powerful ones that could end Sam's life with the snap of fingers but instead kept him around for the sake of amusement. Sam cleared his throat, looking around at the expansive weapon collection. "I heard you bought a necklace this morning."

"Did you," Balthazar's eyes twinkled merrily.

Sam waited for the man to perhaps elaborate on the subject, but Balthazar only continued to smile. "Yes.. I did, from Mrs. Owens."

"Ah, you've been busy this morning."

"Not as busy as you," Sam countered, flashing a half-smile to not come off as overly accusing.

"Yes," Balthazar was undeterred, he looked the pistol over before carefully setting it back on the display. "I did beat you there, I suppose, are you interested in buying?"

Sam saw the opening and took it. "Might I see it before I decide on that?"

Balthazar debated this, betraying just for a half second that he neither believed nor trusted Sam, but in the end he smiled and nodded. "Of course, follow me."

It was Sam's turn to be reluctant, but only for the same half second. If the act with the pistol was anything to go on, Sam was certain that Balthazar wasn't planning on killing him. Maybe keeping him nervous and on his toes. Balthazar was toying with him, like a cat might bat a harmless paw at a frightened mouse just to watch it run. Sam didn't like that feeling, but he was willing to endure it if he got more information. He'd draw a line, of course, but for the moment he was confident in his own abilities. Besides which, he had a great deal of patience for.. people with difficult personalities.

"Are you a collector?" His guide asked as they passed along a series of old, foreign swords.

"Pardon?"

Balthazar glanced over his shoulder before rephrasing, "Do you collect jewelry?"

"At times, yes." It was a half truth, thus easier to speak than some bold-faced lie. He did have a few pieces of jewelry he had collected from the deceased. Sometimes it was pawned off in some nowhere town for a few coins that paid for his and Dean's constant travels. Other times he kept pieces, curious bits usually from witches that often had a series of runes carved in them for various types of protection. He didn't know if they worked, but there were days he might slip on one of the necklaces or rings the dawn before a particularly difficult hunt; sometimes stuffed a talisman into his pocket like a lucky rabbit's foot. He always came out alive in the end, so maybe it did work to a degree. If iron could cage a ghost, if blessed water could make a demon scream, then maybe a few crudely drawn symbols could protect him. "It depends on the piece."

"The weapons market is much more profitable," Balthazar was saying as they came up to a door, procuring a ring of keys from his pocket while his pale eyes sought out Sam's darker pair.

"Why'd you buy it then?" He couldn't help but ask, his tone slightly clipped and likely betraying his inner disgust. He found it overly callous for a man to make a woman sell a cherished necklace the morning after her husband croaked.

For all that Sam's thinly veiled ire showed, Balthazar did little but smile that much more. "I bought it to help Mrs. Owens. As I understand her husband was up to his ears in debt. I merely offered to ease the burden."

"You could have waited - she was still grieving."

"I'm sorry, it was my understanding that you went to her house to purchase that very same necklace."

Sam's lips parted, then firmed into a thin line upon seeing the way Balthazar smiled at him. He had been caught in a lie, and knew it. What he didn't understand was why the trader continued to play at this game. _I'm not going to run_. Sam was no mouse.

Balthazar continued unfettered, "Her grief is temporary. Debts, however, those have a way of following you to the grave and get passed on to your children, and your children's children. Before you hurt yourself getting entirely too emotional about some woman, that you barely know, shedding a few tears. Realize first that I did nothing but help her before the circling vultures could swoop in and pick your dear Nan apart. The first one would have been her dear son's new wife. I think she's had her eye on that necklace long before I came along."

Fingers flexing on their own accord, Sam found himself at a loss of words. He comforted himself with the thought that at least Dean wasn't there. With how his brother had been flying off the handle at the smallest things lately, Sam could easily imagine his brother throwing this trader over one of the tables – one of those neatly set up displays to scattered the priceless goods all over the wooden floor. Then there would be demands, and bloodshed when the initial terms were refused. Sam always prided himself in having better control over his temper. He wasn't going to lose it now. However, he did decide that he needed to take a more aggressive approach. Playing nice wasn't getting him very far - just further and further into an uncomfortable situation; lulled further into believing that Balthazar hadn't done anything wrong. Which maybe he hadn't, but Sam still needed to at least _see_ the necklace for himself.

"I need that necklace."

"Need?" Balthazar chuckled, the look he settled on Sam bordered on piteous. "That's a bit dramatic. Humor me, what could you possible _need_ some tacky necklace for - most of its value is purely sentimental."

The muscle in Sam's jaw flexed. He lifted his hand, showing the silver, five point star to the smug trader. Even the most backwater desperado recognized the badge of a federal marshal and knew to fear it. Balthazar, however, either didn't know what it was, or honestly didn't care. Bets were on the latter option. Sam had gone for stern, in charge, but it was hard when the man in front of him leaned against the frame of the door - not the least bit intimidated. Sam once again felt himself swallow, the adam's apple of his throat noticeably bobbing. "Now, Mr. Roché."

Balthazar folded his arms over his chest, "Now why didn't you show me that from the start?"

"I wanted to see what kind of man you were."

"A very successful, handsome one," Came Balthazar's cheeky reply. "I could have told you that."

"The neckla—"

"No," Balthazar said simply, cutting off Sam's demand. "Not until you tell me why you want it - why you _really_ want it. Because I find it ever so hard to believe a U.S. Marshal wants a necklace. I have a hundred other things in my possession that are worth a grand deal more, but you are trying to rob me of this one little piece."

Sam chewed on the inside of his lip as he debated over telling the truth. In the end he couldn't quite bring himself to do it, "What do you know about Chester Owen's death?"

"Other than the part where he's dead, nothing."

"Did you–"

"Are you honestly trying convolute yourself into believing _I_ killed Mr. Owens just to badger his wife into selling her tarnished pearls?"

Sam's patience began to wane, "Just tell me why you bought it!"

"You really are dense, aren't you. Has it not occurred in that big head of yours that I obviously have a buyer for it."

"Who's the buyer?"

"Dear God," Balthazar was starting to sound as exasperated as Sam's felt. He'd turned away, pinching the bridge of his nose as he muttered to himself. "Absolute moron. I refuse to repeat myself." Then the door was opening, swinging wide as Balthazar stepped aside. To Sam he spoke while gesturing to the street outside, "I have offered enough of my hospitality to you, so good day to you, _Marshal_."

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off by a scream. His blood ran cold and for a moment both he and Balthazar stood frozen, staring at each over and wondering if they had really just heard what they did. Another scream and Sam bolted out the door. He didn't look back to see if the trader was following, just blindly went toward the commotion. His hand fell on a few shoulders, roughly turning people out of the way and allow his taller, broader frame wind through the onlookers. There was a crumpled shape of a man on the steps of the saloon. Too far away yet for Sam to recognize, not when the form was laying face down in the dirt of the street and his duster was bunched up around his body.

A mantra began in Sam's head: Don't be Dean, please don't be Dean.

* * *

**_Earlier..._**

* * *

The window was open. Not open enough to allow Dean to climb through, but open enough for Dean to wedge his hand under the wooden frame and shove it all the way open. The wood shunted up the sides easily, the fragile glass pane rattled when it hit the end of the runners. Dean looked around the narrow space he'd wedged himself into in order to get to the window. The sound hadn't attracted anyone's attention. Someone would have to be really nosey to venture into the tight, back alley gap to inspect a common place noise.

The window - and Dean had scoped it out by cupping hands around his eyes to peer into the darkened interior – it lead into what Dean assumed to be Castiel's room. He'd walked by the front of the saloon to see that it was busy as the afternoon began to roll into the evening. A couple of card games were being played, and there was plenty of noise going on to mask the sound of one little window opening.

Gripping the sill for purchase, Dean hefted himself up and through the window with an ease that could have only come with practice. It wasn't much of a room; a narrow rectangle with a neglected fireplace at one end. The clutter made it feel like the person who lived in there was still in the processing of unpacking. Newspapers could be found tucked in nooks, set over furniture, and even scattered across the floor. There were just as many books. Some were in mint condition, maybe only recently purchased, but others had spines nearly worn to the glue. Crude bookshelves were constructed along a section of wall. Only a few books sat on the uneven planks. Most laid strew about the room, gathering in small cloisters around the chair, a spot on the floor, and at over where the single bed was pushed against the wall.

There were wooden crates near the door that lead out into the saloon. Dean recognized the stamps inked on each side. Booze. Castiel's room doubled as storage. Some of those bottles had been removed for personal consumptions. Here and there lone, empty bottles stood. The disorder was something Dean found familiar. If he stayed in one place for long it turned into the same sort of restless mess. Minus the books, of course, but he had never been the neat sort. Yet having no former knowledge of the bartender, Dean didn't know what to expect upon entering the room. The guy had seemed like he has a stick shoved up his backside - real rigid and all too serious. Dean didn't expect to find such a mess behind the door.

Dean ducked under the laundry strung along a wire bisecting the room. He wasn't seeing anything that stuck out as bad - as in demon orientated bad. No boughs of dried herbs for potion making. No chalk for runic drawings. No dark altars for summoning or conducting blood rituals. It all was completely normal. Messy, but normal.

Dean's shoulders slumped with disappointment.

He'd be so sure..

Stubbornness well up inside him, spurring Dean to angrily stalk across the room - kicking books and papers aside as he went. There had to be something here. The hunter moved a half-finished plate of what looked like yesterday's breakfast from the only cushioned chair in the room. There was a blanket dropped over the back, suggesting Castiel had sat in that chair often in the early morning or late at night. Reading books. Dean sat down and picked up the first cover his fingers touched.

_Oliver Twist_ the cover read, _by Charles Dickens_.

Dean quickly flipped through the pages to see if anything jumped out at him. Finding nothing, Dean tossed the book aside and reached for the next. _Pride and Prejudice._ Dean was bored by the title alone and discarded the second book. He continued digging through the stacked books until something did finally catch his attention. _Children's and Household Tales by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm_. Suddenly Dean forgot what he'd been all worked up over. He smirked. Fingers drew along the cover of the book. He'd been shown this book once. His Uncle had been going off on some rant, talking about how stupid the Grimm brothers were for trying to slip knowledge about various creatures into the mainstream public, to refresh the circulation of lore. The book was banned shortly after being printed. Bobby had gone on at some length about 'those idjits'.

Cracking the book open, Dean picked a random chapter, _The Seven Ravens_, and began to read.

"I hate witches," He muttered to the empty room as he turned the page. Only a witch would turn seven brothers into ravens as punishment. He was nearly done with the short tale when the door suddenly opened. The noise from the saloon beyond filled the room, flooded it. Dean stared at the door frame illuminated by the light beyond. A shadow of a man had stepped in, shouting something back into the room that sounded like a jest. Dean couldn't make out the words, not over the staccato beat of his racing heart.

_Shit, shit, shit._

He remained absolutely still, his hand still holding the page he'd been turning. The figure was holding the door open with one foot while he leaned toward the crates of liquor. Castiel. Fetching a bottle of something-or-another to replace an empty one. He'd be in and out before Dean could count to ten. At least that was what the hunter was telling himself. His gaze sharpened on the bartender, unable to look at anything else. He looked different than what Dean had normally seen. The man's hair was still slightly disheveled, the dark five-o-clock shadow still dominating the lower half of his face. The clothes weren't much different; a white, long sleeved button up that tucked into dark slacks which in turn fell over polished dress shoes. A vest, dark and shimmering with deep shades of blue when Castiel moved kept the loose white shirt buttoned close to the bartender's slender frame.

The obvious difference, Dean finally concluded, was the smile Castiel was showing. Perhaps the bartender had one too many drinks himself, or he was just enjoying the busy shift with the usual fixtures that came in at this hour. It was a full smile too, one that flashed the man's pearly whites. Altogether it was an expression Dean didn't think possible. All he had gotten from Castiel were brooding countenances.

What did he have to smile about anyway?

Castiel pushed the door open with is foot, a bottle weighing down each arm as he turned to head back toward the bar. The door was swinging to a close behind him. Dean held his breath, waiting for the sound of the door latch to sound and let him know he was in the clear. The door abruptly stopped, the barest sliver of light visible between it and the frame. Dean prayed that it had just gotten wedged and only needed a little pull or push to close all the way. Instead the door swung back open, half-way, by means of Castiel's foot. The bartender hadn't turned around, still facing the boisterous saloon. Probably forgot to grab a bottle, Dean reasoned, but even from where he sat in plain sight he could tell that Castiel's posture had stiffened. The man's shoulders had raised the half inch to change his demeanor from relaxed to defensive.

"Anna," He called out over the noise, then repeated himself louder. "Anna!"

From his vantage point, Dean could see the red-head swing into view and relieve Castiel of the two bottles. All the while she gave him a puzzled look. Castiel's features had slid back into the pensive scowl. "Watch the bar."

No explanation, Castiel just stepped backwards into the room and pushed the door to a close. He stared at the wood for a long, silent moment before his hand lifted. The limb hung suspended in the air for a few seconds, hesitating, then Castiel flicked the latch over to lock the door. The bartender kept his back presented to the room. He laid his hand against the door frame, supporting himself as the other hand dragged over his features. The tension built between Castiel's shoulders, drawing them together, then it all came out with a sigh mixed with a growl, "What are you doing here."

So, Dean mused, he had been noticed in the room and he wasn't watching the bartender have a break down. Well, no point in playing coy. The book closed with a crisp snap, "Just reading."

Dark and gloomy pivoted around to glare.

"You were being shy earlier, wouldn't tell me what kept you up all night."

Castiel stalked over to snatch the book from the grinning hunter, "Get out."

"Easy there Doc," Dean settled more comfortably in the chair, his arms stretching out along the rests. Anger was good; anger he could deal with. "So which one was it?"

Some of the anger smooth from Castiel's features, but the crease between his brows remained present as his head canted to one side in obvious perplexity. The man's cold demeanor, and brusque words likely did well to make a lesser man quell. Dean wasn't like other men. He'd had things with fangs scream in his face, things with claws and a lust for blood threatening his very life. Least to say, Dean's poker face was one of the best. It'd take more than a one surly look to get him feeling nervous. He calmly regarded the vexed bartender.

Castiel was taking in the mess around the chair, the once carefully stacked books were strewn carelessly across the floor from Dean's inconsiderate tosses. The anger rippled over Castiel's expression, tightening in corner of his jaw. He swallowed down the anger, fisted it between his hands. His dark blue eyes, smoldering with repressed ire, bore more heavily into Dean's placid gaze. "You need to leave. Now."

"And what makes you think I am going to hop up out of this chair and prance on out of here just because your namby-pamby ass commands it?"

Castiel made a mistake, then, by reaching for the collar of Dean's shirt in an attempt to physically remove the hunter from the room. The smile from Dean's face vanished, but he was no less pleased. He had been waiting for the right excuse to pummel the bartender. He wasn't even sure _why_ he held such a vendetta against the man. Dean always had a monster to focus his inner anger and frustration on, this week his target just happened to be a bookworm. Dean would proving to everyone, or maybe just himself, that his instincts were still on par. This man was hiding something - something _bad_ – and Dean was going to find the truth of it.

Before Castiel's fingers could grasp around the front of Dean's shirt, the hunter's hand came up to seize the bartender's wrist in a vice-like grip. He turned the appendage aside, his whole body twisting with the motion. Dean was up and out of the chair, slamming Castiel's to the cluttered floor. The smaller man twisted before a knee could pin him; pulled Dean along and the two went rolling across the floor, quarreling for the upper hand. The books were further scattered, one being kicked so far as to slid into the fireplace and send up a plume of ash that Dean could taste across his tongue, along with the metallic tang of blood. He'd taken a hit to the nose, but had returned the gesture to Castiel's jaw.

The scuffling – and there was no better word for it as either man didn't move in any way to kill the other. It was a struggle for dominance, of which Dean won. It might have more to do with the knife he'd taken from his boot. The flat of the blade was pressed against the flesh of Castiel's cheek with the serrated edges turned just enough toward his features to communicate that any struggling was going to result in the bartender earning a second mouth. For a moment both men just worked to catch their breaths. Castiel laid pinned to the floor while Dean straddled his hips and planted his free hand against Castiel's collar bone.

"Right," Dean's huffed, the sound reminiscent of a laugh. "Where were we?"

Dean turned his head into his shoulder to wipe away the blood running from his nose, over his lips and threatening to fall of his chin. Castiel hadn't said anything, and the man's blue eyes were roaming around what little he could see on the cluttered floor. Dean fisted his fingers in the cloth of the bartender's shirt. It used to be pristine; a vibrant shade of white. Now the ashes that had spilled across the floor had streaked it with gray, and dots of blood further marred the fibers. Dean jerked at the shirt, forcing Castiel's attention back on him and not roaming for an escape route.

Time for some answers, "What were you really doing last night?"

Castiel's brows peaked, creasing his brow in a puzzled frown. He was searching Dean's features for clarification, or maybe it was just the shock of dealing with a madman. Dean had gotten plenty of the latter from people in.. similar situations as the bartender. Castiel's lips parted, but no words came forth. Once again his gaze shifted, skirting around the room for some explanation. "I.. " He licked at the blood welling from a busted bottom lip. "I already told you."

"Alright. Where's the book?" A small voice in the back of Dean's head softly chimed that this was crazy. Dean mentally shook it off. Too late now, he'd started it and god damn he was going to see it all the way through. He tensed his jaw against the feeling of uncertainty. Watched as Castiel only looked more bewildered. At least in the dazed state, Dean was sure the bartender wouldn't be trying to pull a fast one on him.

Castiel turned his face away from the edge of the knife. His hand groped over the books around them until he found one both his fingers and eyes recognized. This he lifted to Dean with questioning eyes.

Sitting upright, Dean eased his weight off of Castiel's chest and took the book. It looked plain enough with a dull green cover and worn bare corners. The knife withdrew as Dean opened the book, flipping through the pages. This time it was his brow that creased with lack of understanding. He skimmed more frantically through the contents as a small growl in the back of his throat collected volume. His hazel eyes snapped back to the bartender. "_Poetry?_" Dean flipped the book closed, eyeing the title - _Leaves of Grass_. Once more Dean's shoulders slumped. "Okay. I'd be embarrassed to admit to reading this shit - but seriously - _Poetry?_"

Castiel's head tilted back against the floor as his eyes did a small roll. He didn't say anything, but he didn't have to in order to make Dean feel like an idiot. The hunter's jaw tensed in annoyance all the same. He was pissed, but this time it was more at himself. Had he seriously just broken into a guy's house, beat him up, then after all was said and done discover the guy had just been up reading some shitty poems. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was so far off his game it wasn't even funny. Maybe he was going to a bit crazy and starting to see monsters where there weren't any.

No, no. He was _fine_, damnit. Just God damn freaking _fine._

He'd never been this wrong before and he flat out refused to start now.

The knife descended, brushed over the hollow of Castiel's throat before the sharp tip caught against the gossamer cloth of the string bow tie. Angling the knife away, the thin tie began to unravel. Dean could feel the weight of Castiel's gaze, searching his profile for an explanation. Dean ignored it. He didn't even have a rational excuse to voice to himself, let alone the man he'd bloodied. So he put forth indifference. Put up a mask to show he didn't care. It was similar to the forced calm that Castiel was wearing; even though Dean knew it was a lie. The pulse swiftly skipping away in Castiel's neck told a different story.

"What do you know about banshees?" Dean whispered as the tie came loose. He slid the knife point under the shirt collar button, hooking the fragile, thin threads with the serrated edge. His hazel eyes flicked up to the blue pair that continued to intently watch him.

Castiel slowly shook his head, careful of the blade so near to his neck. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

The button came off easily, sliding over Castiel's shoulder and rolling across the floor. Dean calmly parted the shirt, exposing flesh but finding nothing that he was looking for. He'd been hoping to see some sort of necklace with a witch-like talisman attached. "Demons?"

Blue eyes sharpened with thought before shuttering and turning aside, "I have never heard of a demon called banshees."

"What? No. A banshee is.. " Uhm. "It's uh.. a ghost.. thing - I think. You know what it doesn't matter."

Huh.

Dean leaned back as the anger seeped away to only leave an awkwardness in its wake. He almost wanted to chuckle at the ever so simple comment Castiel had voiced. The guy really was kind of clueless - sure as hell looked the part of a bewildered doe. Dean gritted his teeth, meshing them together as he fought to not let his embarrassment shine through. There was no way he could gracefully bow out of this situation. He probably should start with an apology, but even thinking of apologizing made his throat tighten to cut off any attempts at speech. Instead he tipped the point of the knife under Castiel's chin, his green eyes hardened. "I still don't trust you."

Something akin to annoyance settled across Castiel's stony mask, "I am well aware of your trust issues."

The knife raised an inch, glimmering in the low light where Castiel was sure to see the silent threat. "Don't get cute."

"I'm not –" Castiel's rusted tone sounded much like a growl, which should have been warning enough for Dean. Should have, if the hunter wasn't so damn sure of his control on the situation. Suddenly his side was screaming with pain, his vision darkened and his stomach did a dazzling somersault that made his breakfast want to spill out over the floor. _Fuck_. He slumped against the floor, a hand across his abdomen as he succumbed to the pain. Castiel had hit him - right in the stitches. It begged the question of why the bartender hadn't done that earlier in the scuffle. Dean struggled to breathe, each intake sounding feral as he sucked in the air through clenched teeth.

"Sonuvabitch," He swore through the pain. Dean rolled on the floor, gripping at the floorboard to try and force himself back onto his feet. He groped blindly for his knife only to realize Castiel had pried it out of his grip seconds earlier. Dean was going to murder him. Murder that little yellow-bellied, poetry reading bastard. Once he got his hands on the man anyway – Castiel was already on the other side of the room.

Castiel curiously examined the knife before shifting his gaze to where Dean remained curled in on himself, "I'm not _getting cute_, and I don't appreciate your means of persuasion."

Dean growled as he inched toward the barkeep, violence brimming in his eyes. Once he got his hands around that bastards neck.. ! Dean made another growl, this one out of frustration as he realized he had been reduced to crawling - practically dragging himself across the floor like some crazed animal. He forced himself to stop and pulled back together what little dignity he had left to concentrated on the simple task of breathing.

_Christ_ that hurt.

"I.. apologize for hurting you."

Incredulity filled the glare Dean shot at the other man, "The hell you're sorry."

Castiel frowned, "I am. You left me no other choice."

"Shutting up was a choice," Dean snapped, "Just like right now, you can shut your cakehole."

Lips parted, but Castiel thought better of commenting and simply pressed them into a thin frown. He appeared to debate with himself for a long moment before carefully setting the knife down on the nearest ledge. "You should leave."

"Yeah, I'll just hop up and jig my way on out of here," Dean fumed. He tore his livid gaze away from Castiel long enough to check his side. Bright spots of red dotted his shirt, but otherwise the stitches remained whole. At least the pain was starting to lessen. Small blessing, that.

"I would help you but," Castiel ran his thumb over the gash in his lip, studied the blood smeared across the calloused pad with an air of indifference. "I strongly suspect you would react poorly to my attempts."

Dean snorted - the single action making his bleeding nose hurt. Strange that he could feel that pain over the one dominating his side. Once he eased himself into a kneeling position, Dean once again set his sights on the bartender. A strange fellow that one. Dean had dealt with his share of nobby gents and their mannerly way with no sirs and yes ma'ams. This man was a whole different breed. It reminded Dean a bit of talking with the natives, only worse, every other word sounded out of place. Understandable, but the formality of it still made it sound foreign to the ears.

"I will fetch the Doctor."

It took a moment for Dean to realize Castiel meant the actual doctor, and not a glass of Red Eye. Dean's lips pulled into a frown. "You one of those quakers?"

Castiel paused where he'd moved to unlatch the door, "You ask because I'm being kind to you."

Dean had to wonder about it. He'd not only stolen his way into the man's home, but made a right mess out of the place, and then assaulted him. Castiel had every right to fill him with lead. Instead he was going to find the doc to patch him up. It sounded a great deal like a quaker to him. All that nonsense about all men are good if they are shown the light, and a man who is friend to other men is a happy man himself. Hogwash, all of it. "Are you?"

"No," Castiel reply lacked inflection, his gaze however showed enough disquietude to perk Dean's curiosity. "They don't believe in using force."

Dean's brows rose in question, but Castiel was gone, leaving the hunter to puzzle over the comment. Clear enough the man wasn't worried about leaving Dean alone in the room. Nothing to hide, so it would seem. Dean had been wrong. _Wrong_. He wasn't going to find anything in here. Absolutely nothing. In a moment of pique, Dean grabbed the book nearest to him and flung it at the wall. It fell, plunking against the low keys of an old piano left forgotten in the corner before ending with a solid _thunk_ against the floor. He hated being wrong.

The effort it took to rise up to his feet and walk to the door left Dean a touch queasy. He reached into the crate and fetched his own form of doctoring - a fresh bottle of whiskey. This he tucked under an arm then, not even thinking twice about it, latched the hook on the door. A petty revenge, locking the bartender out of his own room, and Dean knew it full and well. It still made him grin ever so slightly despite the pain. He negotiated his way to the open window and swung a leg over the sill and–

"–Sweet Jesus!"

The hunter leapt away from the window, catching his spur on the frame and succeeding in tripping himself right back down on the floor. This time he wasn't so miffed. His attention was snared on the face in the open window. That woman - _that frickin woman_ - was staring in at him with her one good eye. Her hair was more frazzled than last time - all frizzed up like a hissing cat. Her arm came in through the window and Dean scrambled backwards to avoid any possible contact. She was saying something. Or so he thought. Her lips were moving, _gnawing _was a more apt description, and there was a low murmuring coming from her throat. One bony finger extended and the murmur grew in volume.

Dean glanced toward his only escape (the locked door) but his gaze caught on something else. The fireplace. He crawled on hands and knees to reach the messy hearth. His hand curled around the poker left resting in the ashes. He sprang to his feet - adrenaline overriding the pain - and brandished the iron rod at the woman. "Get back you banshee hag!"

He swung. She screamed - and ran. The iron dug into the soft wood of the window sill. Dean popped his head out the window, seeing no signs of the old woman, but he could still hear her screaming. A white sheet laid twisted on the ground where the woman had once stood. Seriously, Dean was starting to wonder if he was hallucinating. He touched an open hand to wound on his side, and for the first time since first getting split opened, Dean was worried. His head hadn't been on straight since the ambush. This.. this might be something he should tell Sam about.

A tremor traveled along his limbs. Dean tightened his grip on the iron poker to stop it. Cautiously he backed away from the open window. When he was certain the old woman wasn't going to spider crawl her way inside, Dean turned to hastily unlock the door and escape the dark room. The saloon, his home away from home, should have been a welcomed sight. Only after two steps Dean knew something was wrong. Seats were vacated and heads were turned. Not toward him, but something out on the street had the room's attention.

Dean hugged the poker to his side, unwilling to give up his weapon, and edged around the men to get a gander. He was just pushing through the swing doors when a pair of hands grabbed the lapels of his shirt. Dean's eyes bugged, still on edge, and he nearly stabbed the man with iron. Thankfully he recognized the other man in time, and his reflexes remained reliable even if he felt like he was slowly losing pieces of his sanity. "Sam."

"Dean! Dean.. " Sam let out a weight breath, drawing in a quick one afterwards. He'd been running. "I thought.. " Another breath. "Glad you're.. " The next exhale was a near whistle. Relief was written all over Sam's features. His brother slid a hand through long, brown bangs. Then all at once he froze, brows scrunching as he peered down at the iron poker, then his eyes flicked to Dean's side. "You're bleeding."

"You're glad I'm _bleeding?_"

"What happened?"

"What happened out _here?_"

Sam always yielded first, "A man's dead."

"What!?" Dean's jaw hung a moment before he turned to finish negotiating his way into the gawking crowd. Sure enough at the bottom steps of the saloon laid a man. His face was planted in the dirt, but Dean only needed to see the hat and the wild bush of gray hair peeking out from underneath to know. "Ah hell, that's Teddy."

"Teddy?" It's was Sam's turn to be skeptical.

"He's a friend of Chester's," Dean explained absently while pivoting back toward Sam. "He was in the bar drinking this morning. I was just talking to him.."

Sam had that _look _on his face. The one that asked why Dean hadn't said something earlier, and hey there had to be a connection here when a man dies, and his old friend died the next day. Dean shook it off, his hazel eyes narrowing in defense against that annoying look. "I didn't think it was important. He was just some drunk. He's the one that told me about that necklace."

The crowd parted from around Teddy to allow a man through. Dean stepped aside, shifting back around to become a spectator with the rest. The man now kneeling next to Teddy's body, rolling him over, must be the doctor. A glance just beyond the doctor showed Castiel. The barkeep really had gone to fetch the doctor. Dean quickly adverted his gaze from meeting those blue eyes.

"I didn't hear no gunshot, Doc." A man from the gathered crowd freely offered up the information. "Ted was just getting up, said he had somewhere to be before staggering out. Next thing I know there's some woman wailing. Rushed out here quick as I could, but Ted was already lying there stiff as a coffin nail. What you reckon happened?"

Dean's attention was straying, back up to where Castiel stood. A man in a suit had joined him - the one Dean had seen when first riding into town; the one he'd figured as trouble. He was talking to Castiel, seemingly not aware of the body lying in the street. His hand was touching Castiel's face, turning the shorter man's face up to better inspect the bloodied lip.

Sam's elbow lightly touched against Dean's side, snapping the older hunter's attention away. "Dean. Look."

Look - look where?

Guessing that Sam meant the body, and not the curious exchange between the men standing apart from the crowd, Dean looked. He didn't know what he was suppose to be seeing until Sam supplied the information. "His eyes are white, just like Chester's."

Dean grunted. Sam sounded a bit smug (probably because he'd been right to alluding to a repeat of the strange death. There never was just one) Dean just grimaced. It wasn't good news at all. They still had no idea what they were dealing with and the body count was quickly building. If they didn't figure out what was going on, and fast, they were going to have to leave town. Dean hated leaving unfinished business - at least of the monster variety - behind for someone else to deal with. Mainly because no one else could take care of the problem. He just knew that at one point he and Sam had to draw the line; to look out for their own backs instead of everyone else.

As much as Dean didn't care for people, he had a hard time turning his back on them.

Dean checked his grip on the poker before stepping around Sam and headed for Castiel and the stranger. His ears strained to hear over the murmurs concerning Teddy's death to instead pick up on the conversation ahead.

"Surely you can find some monkey to watch the bar for the night," The taller man was saying to a stoic Castiel. "Join me for dinner and _don't _ give me that look, Cassy, you've been hiding out in that ramshackle piss house so long you've actually grown pale. Besides which, I think you and I need to have a little talk."

"Balthazar.. " Castiel warily eyed the Englishman.

The suited man smiled, "For old time's sake."

As Dean stepped near, the warmth faded from Balthazar's face as he pinned a shrewd look on the hunter. "I've heard the phrase _packing iron_, but that's taking a bit literally, wouldn't you agree?"

Dean's teeth grit before he put forth a smile. He extended the fire iron to Castiel - who in turn just stared at him in the same manner of confusion he had back in the saloon. His brow all creased in a subconscious frown and his lips slightly parted. It looked even more genuine, naive even, out in the daylight. Dean lightly waved the poker at the man until he caught on to the hint to accept it. Probably wouldn't even realize it belonged to him until he got back to his room. Dean's smile quirked a touch wider at the thought. He turned his hazel gaze to the old countryman.

"Friend of yours?" Dean jerked his head back toward the dead man.

"Heavens no," Balthazar replied, shameless, then dismissed Dean's entirely by fixing his attention back on Castiel. The affection, as it could be nothing else, softened his features. "Come, and don't think of bilking out on me. You know well what I will do if you don't at least humor me."

Castiel's gaze briefly raised from the poker to give the Englishman a tired look. His voice came out a touch lower, the inflection almost completely absent, but Dean had heard enough to start to hear the small hints of emotion. The lower pitch, graveling Castiel's tone further, was one of a tolerated exasperation, "I do," and deeper yet, "unfortunately."

"Fantastic," came Balthazar's chipper voice, and then the suit was nodding, turning on heel to stride off without so much as a backward glance.

Dean watched him go a couple steps before looking at Castiel. The hunters lips parted, no doubt he had something witty in mind; yet the moment his gaze connected with the sapphire orbs belonging to the barkeep, he changed his mind. It felt too awkward to make jokes with the guy he still wanted to see guzzle a quart of holy water. He pointed to the iron rod, "Borrowed that, Thanks."

And then he too was walking away, leaving Castiel a lost lamb in the middle of the street. The hunter joined back up with his brother, seizing the taller man by the crook of elbow to lead him back toward the saloon. "We need to talk about what's going on here."

Sam submitted to Dean's lead, "Did you find something in dad's books?"

Wince. Oh right, that's what Sam had asked him to do earlier. ".. Not exactly."

"Did you just sit at the bar and drink?"

Dean shot his brother a harsh look, putting a stop to any further patronizing from Sam.

"Well.. be thankful you didn't have to go meet the trader." Sam changed gears, "He's not the least bit guilty about buying that necklace."

"Most trader's wouldn't be, not if there's a profit to be made."

"You should have seen this guy's place. He's got an huge weapons stash in there. I don't think he's concerned about making a profit."

Dean released his brothers arm and rubbed free fingers against the pain pulsing at his temple, "You think the necklace is involve with this banshee thing?"

"There does seem to be a connection," Sam lightly shrugged. "Husband dies, wife sells it, then husband's friend dies."

"Someone's trying of silent anyone that might know a thing or two about this necklace?" Dean voiced, knowing the same thought was on the tip of Sam's tongue. As reasonable as it felt to arrive to that assumption, Dean's brow furrowed. "Sammy, I just don't know. You talked about that whole killing people with a scream thing and I keep seeing this old woman–"

Sam's curious perked, "–Old woman?"

"Old hag, like one of those crones you find out in the woods doing hoodoo. You've seen her, right?"

As Sam shook his head, Dean felt his stomach sink. So much for hoping he wasn't hallucinating. "Really? She was there when we first came into town, she was washing a shirt or something..?"

Dean knew he had said something important when Sam's eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets, "Dean."

The older hunter cocked his head, "Sam?"

"It said, in the journal - weren't you listening this morning?"

"The _point_, Sam."

Sam cleared his throat before reciting, "A banshee is often seen as a woman washing the blood stains out of the clothes, or armor, of those who are about to die."

It was Dean's eyes that widen this time, "I saw her later, you know when you found me in the alley. She was toting around an armful of laundry. Then later she showed up in the window. I swung some iron at her and she left screaming, next thing I know Teddy's dead."

"Which window - our room window?"

"Castiel's." Dean internally winced. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the prying look Sam was bound to give him. "We were.. talking."

Sam arched a brow, "Talking."

"Yeah," Dean's tone flattened, "Talking."

"Right," Sam's gaze flicked to the blood spotting Dean's shirt, brows rising, but he dropped the subject all the same. "So what was she doing at the window?"

"Scaring the living breath out of me," Dean's snipped, his patience thinning at the being put on the spot. "She _pointed_ at me, or something. I don't know, I was more concerned about getting the heck out of there."

"Think she came for you?"

"Well she didn't get me."

"Maybe she wanted the bartender."

This whole thing was giving Dean a hellish headache. Why couldn't this just be another vampire. Then it could have been so straight forward and simple. Victim drained of blood, hunt down the sucker that did it. Decapitation. It wasn't too hard to find vampires. Ghosts, however, they always had to find out _who_ the ghost was when they were alive and _why_ they might be sticking around to off a couple of old cow pokes. Worse, if Sam was right about the whole banshee thing (and his brother was usually right) it meant there was someone else controlling the dead. So, yet another piece to the puzzle, they had to figure out _who_ was wanting people dead. In this town, everyone seemed suspicious enough to fill the boot.

Dean sighed, "I need a drink."

"First round's on me," Sam seconded.

* * *

**Read? Curious? Review!**

_**A/N:**__ Phew, I wanted to do a long chapter to make up for the shorter ones I've been posting. What happened was this turned into 9k word monster. It's obviously a double feature because I couldn't resist throwing in a bit of Balthazar interaction at the beginning. It was only possible if I did it from Sam's perspective since Dean was a prat and didn't want to go. Next chapter will feature a different perspective as well. Hopefully it will shake things up as I let leak a bit of insight to the plot that's forming in the background. _

_ Snseriesfan - Hey hey, none of that. It's all good, ya'hear!_

_ asialisek - Glad you're still on board. You know I was looking back at my old fanfictions and I've been tempted to finish sea of fire/ice. It was my first fic. It deserves an ending._

_ Reirei - Don't we talk enough on IM? No further love for you!_

_ lookingatthepieces - Thank you so much for becoming a minion! I mean - a reader. Your reviews are greatly appreciated and I'm glad to have you on board. For everyone out there, pieces was kind enough to succumb to my request to read and review my story. I'm a fan of piece's story, so people go check out "Worker Bee"!_


	6. Wishful Thinking

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural or the characters. I do own a chocolate lab named Mako.

* * *

**Chapter Six: **Wishful Thinking

**By: **Zavijah

_For old time's sake._

Honeyed words, those, and Castiel knew it all too well. It wouldn't be the first time he found himself drawn in by similar phrases. His reluctance, his weak protests, were never enough to dissuade Balthazar. The older man knew him too well; knew what tone to use to deftly pluck the cords of Castiel's tender heart. Knew the right words to speak to earn Castiel's expressive gaze. Knew where to brush fingertips along; to ghost lips over—

_For old time's sake._

Dinner rarely came into play. If it did, it was as an afterthought. The history between them was not one discussed pleasantly over fine china and polished silverware. The past, one Castiel tried so hard to leave behind, would not be silenced. Not when persistent hands pulled the tails of his shirt free; and with every button undone, the memories of another life returned to taunt him. Castiel wanted to forget his mistakes. He longed for a sense of peace within himself - but the past stretched out behind him like a shadow, never to be lost; ever there when he chanced to look over his shoulder. Time did not dull the ache of his guilt. If anything, the passage of time had cultivated his remorse into a crushing weight. Every time he recalled what he would rather disremember, the weight increased.

Would it one day kill him?

Perhaps.

Until then, Castiel would let himself be taken by the sweet words of the past that left a bitter after taste. It was a longing for familiarity; an echo of a feeling he once had; a craving for attention to soothe the loneliness he'd built around himself. He could no better refuse it than he could deny the shadow beneath his feet. It twisted at his heart, ate him alive, and time and time again he agreed to the self-induced torture of his feelings. He wanted to stop, to say no, but never did.

"Cas."

He was seated on the foot of the bed, his shirt open to expose his torso. The tie that once decorated his collar was undone, leaving the long silken lengths to hang freely. Castiel had either end pinched between thumb and forefinger as he stared at a unnamed color woven into the rug beneath his bare feet. Slowly he drew out of his inner turmoil, lifting his dark blue eyes to the man standing beside a dresser. Balthazar. A man meant to be a stranger, but he was anything but. Less so when Balthazar continued to open doors that were better left closed and locked. One door led to another, and piece by piece the past crept into the present.

"You have that look on your face again."

Castiel's head canted to the side as a familiar crease knitted between his brows. He silently wondered what look he wore that garnered Balthazar's verbal observation. All he had been doing was study the design in the carpet and – "I was thinking."

"Obviously," Balthazar teased as he leaned back against the dresser. His arms crossed, settling against his lower abdomen; bare and slender like Castiel has always remembered it. "I'm lucky you don't pace as much as you repeat the past in that head of yours, my rugs would have been ruined if that were the case."

Castiel wasn't sure what Balthazar meant to communicate with the comparison to pacing. It sounded vaguely like a complaint, and that Balthazar cared more about the state of his rugs than Castiel's troubled feelings. Dark eyes lowered to the soft fabric beneath his toes and he lightly dragged a heel over the myriad of colorful threads.

"Let it go, Cas."

His fingers parted, releasing the long ends of his tie.

"_The past_, Cas, not your bloody tie."

Castiel innocently lifted his gaze to Balthazar, "I can't."

"You _won't_ you mean," Balthazar's voice, while cutting in words, remained soft in tone. It was always soft when directed toward Castiel. "I've let it go. Anna has as well. It can be done."

Castiel's gaze firmed on the other man as irritation rippled beneath the surface of his quiet exterior. Balthazar's flippant behavior, while charming in certain scenarios, was utterly distasteful in others. Castiel knew firsthand how little Balthazar cared about the pain he so carelessly caused for another. He would always brush things aside - out of sight and out of mind. There had been moments in Castiel's life when he believed Balthazar regretted his actions, but it never seemed to stop the man from repeating them. It was a endless loop; a cycle Castiel continued to partake in because it was familiar - because he had once cared, and still did.

It took Castiel a moment to find the words he was fervently seeking, "If I were to forget so easily, it would mean it never meant anything to me, that I don't feel responsible for what I have done."

"To forgive," Balthazar argued, "is to forget."

"It is not my forgiveness that matters," Castiel tried to explain and not for the first time. "I do not feel guilty about my own pain. It is those that suffered from my actions that–"

"They're dead, Cas. You can't ask forgiveness from the dead."

Castiel's lips pulled downward as his mood spiraled toward despair. He wished at times that Balthazar could feel the same way, but the other man had always been different. Balthazar had his own way of dealing with things. It seemed, to Castiel, that the closer feelings, or people, got to Balthazar, the more such things were rudely shoved aside. He knew what it felt like to be pushed away by those hands - those words - that voice that always spoke softly.

"Would it make any difference if I told you that _I_ forgive you?"

"No," Castiel answered honestly, even if he suspected Balthazar wanted to be humored. He'd never felt he had done wrong by Balthazar and he wasn't going to play along, to pretend _he _had done something to the other man that required forgiveness.

Balthazar looked annoyed - if Castiel had read the gesture of Balthazar's hand lifting to pinch at the bridge of the nose was correct. It only lasted a moment, then the older man had put the smile back on. There was a thoughtfulness to Balthazar's pale blue eyes, but Castiel had little hope of understanding the reason behind it. Balthazar let out a short exhale, his smile widening to dismiss the weight behind Castiel's ever-so-simple reply. ""It's not like you knew, so why badger yourself over it? You were just following orders, we all were."

Castiel's chin tucked defiantly toward his chest, "I should have known."

"You couldn't have known, Castiel. You're not omnipotent," Balthazar had crossed the room, drawing up in front of Castiel to grasp at the ends of his tie. His fingers tighten in the silk, "You were just being a good little soldier. Always were."

Forced closer, Castiel had no choice but to lift his face up toward Balthazar's unless he wanted to speak to the man's navel, "I should have questioned the orders."

"Should've, would've, could've," The words were musical yet mocking. Balthazar's attempts at comfort had always been a double edged knife. "You can't change the past. You're not God. Speaking of which - has he answered you yet? I imagine that's why you bother with attending those dreadfully boring seminars. If the dead cannot grant forgiveness, might as well seek it from God, right? I don't know which idea is more ridiculous."

"I.. "

Balthazar had moved, a knee on either side of Castiel's legs as he moved onto the bed. Castiel leaned back, but the tie Balthazar firmly held onto prevented an escape. Balthazar's head bent to claim Castiel's lips, putting an end to the despairing conversation. Castiel eased into it, even if in the back of his mind he wanted to pull away - to leave. The voice would quiet down, becoming silent, and Castiel wanted it to happen. He wanted the silence; to be able to put all his thoughts aside and _forget -_ if only for a short while. It was why he allowed himself to be drawn in by honey words he knew weren't true. Castiel accepted the sweet lies Balthazar so readily offered.

Of a sudden, Castiel jerked his head aside with a hiss. The taste of blood danced over his tongue. He lightly probed at his lower lip, feeling the split that had opened back up under the force of Balthazar's kiss.

"Mm, yes. That bloke landed quite the blow on you," Balthazar had eased back to slide fingers under Castiel's chin, turning his face up toward the soft light coming from the burning oil lamp. "Coloring up like a flower too. What did you say happened?"

"I didn't."

"So I'll ask now," Balthazar patiently toned, "What happened?"

Castiel blue eyes roved over Balthazar's features bathed in the warm, orange light. His mind strayed back to earlier that evening and once more a confusion stirred restlessly behind his eyes. Although he had been there, part of strange events, Castiel had no idea what had happened, or where to even begin an explanation. "I don't know."

Balthazar snorted, "So a man just walks up to you and decides he wanted his fist to meet your face."

"No," Castiel's tone, low as always, growled with a familiar frustration at being patronized. "He was.. looking for something."

"What?"

Castiel wanted to say it was a book, but felt that wasn't correct. It seemed to him the green-eyed man was seeking something else. Something that wasn't tangible. A purpose, a reason. There had been an edge of desperation to the man's actions that Castiel couldn't ignore. It was something Castiel could relate to - seeking something elusive and although he imaged it to be right at his fingertips, he couldn't grasp it no matter how vainly he tried. Balthazar would likely laugh at those thoughts, so Castiel decided such things were best left unspoken and changed the subject. "At first I thought he might have been a man sent by Michael."

Balthazar appeared wary, having eased back to sit on Castiel's thighs.

"I believe I was wrong in my original assumption," Castiel continued logically. "He did not appear to know who I was, and when we fought it was clear to me that his intention did not entail killing me."

"You can tell that, hm?" Balthazar fingers began to toy with the ends with the tie, seemingly having lost interest in the conversation.

"Yes. He had a knife, but only used it as a threat."

"Oh Cassy," Balthazar sounded amused, "You are such a twit at times."

Again Castiel frowned and his brow furrowed with lack of understanding.

"Nevermind," Balthazar slid the tie along the back of Castiel's neck, tugging the younger man a little closer. "It's amusing in a way. I had this moose of a man rooting around my collection earlier. I can say I don't like people sticking their noses where they don't belong. Ask too many questions and a man's bound to get shot for it."

"You don't think–"

"Heaven's no. He hasn't got a clue," Balthazar pressed against Castiel, forcing the younger man to lay back against the bed. "Even if he did, I put him on Bela's trail. Granted, it may take him a while to realize it, but if we're lucky these nosy gents will sniff her out and proceed to chase her out of town. She's been a pain in my backside ever since she first rode into town."

"You were coarse with her," Castiel stated matter-of-factly.

Balthazar chuckled from where he had leaned in toward Castiel, his smiling lips brushed along the warmth of Castiel's throat. "Her face was priceless."

Castiel stared thoughtfully at the ceiling, "I thought she looked appalled."

More laughter from Balthazar; it tickled against the side of Castiel's neck which in turn drew the smallest of smiles out of the acclaimed bartender (even if he didn't know what was so funny about what he'd said). The expression waned as Castiel's thoughts wandered, even as he twined his arms around Balthazar's torso. "Do you think they will really leave?"

"Yes - the sooner the better."

Castiel didn't fully understand the feeling of disappointment that sank in his chest. He could acknowledge to himself that he'd been curious about the troubled, green-eyed man. As Balthazar had done, Castiel had pegged the man as a variety of bounty hunter. Such types were often recognized by their arrogance and a certain jaded quality to their eyes that exposed a quiet truth - one involving having taken a life, more than once, in the past. The touch of lips was moving down the line of his neck, over his collar bone, yet Castiel found himself frowning up at the ceiling. His mind elsewhere, lingering on thoughts about another man. "That is disappointing."

Balthazar paused, "Excuse me?"

Castile flicked his gaze down to Balthazar's face, easily reading the irritation there. Clearly he had said something unsatisfactory. It was best to keep his thoughts to himself. Castiel swallowed down a rising apology. He tilted his head back against the sheets, his gaze returning to the ceiling. "I will shut up now."

_For old time's sake._

"There's a good little soldier."

One day he'd shut this door for good, put a lock on it for safe measures. One day, Castiel told himself, he might just stop caring and the knife would stop twisting in his chest. Until then all he had was the lingering taste of bitter-sweetness and these small moments where he could pretend to forget.

* * *

_**A/N**__: A serious chapter, because as much as Castiel is amusing in his awkward moments, he's a very serious character. It's my personal perspective, but when I look at Castiel I see a lot of pain. He's always tried to do the right thing, struggled to keep his faith through it all, and in the end it crumbed around him and those he thought of as friends turned on him. It was his mistake, and no matter how regretful he is of his actions, no forgiveness is forthcoming. Existing seems like a punishment._

_Damnit, someone give Castiel a hug._

_As for Balthazar, of course he cares. Sorta - he's just also a jerk._

Read? Curious? Review!


	7. Unfortunate Circumstances

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural or the characters.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: **Unfortunate Circumstances

**By:** Zavijah

"Rise and shine, Sammy!"

The boisterous tone _may_ have been deliberate. Dean plopped down on the end of his brother's bed, bounced once, then doubled to pull on his boots. Next to him Sam stirred, emitting a groan wrought by pain. His head lifted from the pillow, taking in the early morning hour before his head plunked back down. Sam tugged at the blanket, trapped beneath Dean, and attempted to hide under it. The pulling became more persistent when his first attempts didn't yield the blanket.

"Oh you were a _hoot_ last night Sam," Dean straightened, flashing a wide grin at the tall man trying to vainly to huddle under a blanket and bed too small. Dean bit back a laugh but didn't bother toning down the grin that broadened across his tanned features. "That red-head — what was her name again?"

Sam whined and pulled a thin pillow over his head.

"Anna. Yeah, that's her name." Dean continued cheerily. "Boy, she sure filled you to the gills. That's my kind of bartender."

"Dean, please.."

"We're going to have to ask her to water down your stuff though, because _woo_ – you should have seen it." He leaned back against Sam's legs. "Or did you happened to catch sight of yourself in the mirror behind the bar. You _were_ on top of the bar."

"For the love of God, Dean, shut up."

"Oh man, I haven't seen you drink that much since – " The words froze on the tip of his tongue. The pause was easily mistaken for thoughtfulness; that Dean was having trouble recalling the last time he'd seen his younger brother utterly inebriated. He remembered just fine. It had been after they buried their father. "Huh, it's been so long I can't remember."

Reaching over, Dean smacked the meat of Sam's covered thigh. "You need to bend an elbow more often."

"Never. Again." Sam growled, peeking over the blanket to spot Dean before shoving him off the edge of the bed with a foot.

Dean, expecting the retaliation, stood as Sam pushed. "Don't be that way Sammy, you just need more experience under your belt. Listen to your favorite brother–"

"–only brother–"

"–and heed his superior wisdom," Dean donned his shirt and worked on the buttons. "You need breakfast. Now, not later. Now. We'll stuff you full of bacon, eggs and whatever else I can find and you'll feel great."

There were muffled words coming through the pillow shielding Sam from the world. Dean couldn't understand a word of it, but could just as well imagine it was a disagreement toward Dean's statement. "I guess I could take you to the stables and feed you oats instead, that sound good to you Sam? Some oats and a dunk in the trough?"

It didn't take long for Sam to throw the pillow at Dean. Shortly after Sam lost the blanket. It was a good twenty minutes until Dean convinced Sam to not only get dressed, but head out together to the nearby eating house. Apparently his brother was all bent out of shape of having to share the morning any further with Dean. The older hunter did ease off - a bit. He couldn't help but pick on his younger brother. It was so normal, and normal was nice when their lives consisted of really weird shit.

From over his second glass of water, Sam glowered, "I'll never understand how you can drink like a fish and still walk the following morning."

"Because Sammy," Dean chimed. "I have the constitution of a mountain lion."

Sam snorted as he watched Dean bolt down the foot, "And the stomach of a goat."

Dean smirked between bites, but didn't speak until his plate was nearly emptied. "So, about this necklace you want to track down, you know where it is?"

"Nngh.." Sam had the glass of water pressed to his temple, and his eyes were closed. "He said he had a buyer for it, but I didn't catch a name."

Of course not, that would have made things too easy. Dean pushed the remains of his breakfast around on his plate. There were days, this one included, that Dean Winchester preferred to deal with monsters over people. At least with monsters he knew their end game. There was no need to bring in the reasons derived from the seven deadly sins to figure them out. People were just all sorts of complicated and did stupid things for even stupider reasons. Dean let out a slow breath, mentally pushing his frustrations aside to approach the situation with a simple rationalization.

First, assuming the trader indeed had a buyer for the necklace, it would have to be someone with the means to buy it.

Dean turned his gaze to the window facing the street. Grime outlined the edges leaving Dean to wonder over the last time anyone had bothered to wash it, or if it was a lost cause. Beyond the opaque glass people walked by on morning errands. Hazel eyes took them in, trying to pick out which one had the pocket bills to go through such trouble to get a fresh widower's necklace. The problem laid in the fact that everyone looked so plain.

Except a certain head of dark hair, looking more disheveled than usual, walking past the front of the eating house.

He must have tensed, or his expression gave it away, but Sam's voice broke Dean's concentration. "What did he do to you?"

"Hm?" Dean toned inquiringly, not moving his gaze away from the window until Castiel was out of sight. Only then did he blink over at Sam's doubtful look. "Who did what?"

"The bartender," Sam's fingers flicked toward the window as emphasis. "He must have done something to you to earn that look."

Dean shrugged, "Don't know what–"

"You said you were talking with him last night, a talk that left you _and _him bloodied."

"I don't like the guy, Sam." Dean stated plainly in hopes of shutting his brother's trap. "It's nothing more than that."

The conversation likely wasn't improving Sam's mood from being hung over. "Fine, but you know we have to watch him, right?"

"Oh I'll watch him."

Sam rolled his eyes, "I mean watch as in protect him. If that old woman, or this banshee, came to his window, it might have been targeting him."

"In that case, I'm not watching him."

"Yes you are, Dean–"

The older hunter slammed his fork into his plate, "What? No. You do it."

"Dean, look, if it wasn't him, then it might have been you. So you're both possible targets and frankly, with those stitches you keep ripping, you're in no condition to be hunting. You _should be _resting. So would it kill you to–"

"Yes!" Dean protested. "Yes, it will kill me."

Sam leveled a stern look on him.

"Maybe." The older hunter pouted before shoving his plate toward the edge of the table. He didn't like sitting around on his ass, injury or not, when there was a dozen other things he could be doing. Useful things, and not babysitting after the jerk that had helped in popping a couple of the stitches on his side. "What do you expect me to say to him, Sam? Oh hey, this might sound crazy and all, but I think a banshee might be coming to kill one of us, so let's camp out together in a salt ring."

Sam shrugged, which only served to further outrage Dean.

"I held a _knife_ to his _throat_, Sam, he's not going to want to be in the same room with me, especially not alone."

"Jesus Dean, what did the guy do to you?"

Dean frowned as the conversation had looped back to Sam's original question. He no more had an answer to it now than he did then. At first it was the inability to pinpoint what it had been that set Dean off. This time, with the repeating question, Dean was forced to admit to himself that Castiel had done nothing to him. Immediately Dean tried to combat against the idea. No, no, Castiel had acted suspiciously and Dean had just noticed it. But, his conscious quietly argued, everyone was suspicious in Dean's eyes.

"Fine," Dean growled as he stood from the table. "I'll try it your way, but if he's too much of a pain in my ass, I'm leaving him to fend for himself."

"Fair enough."

Dean headed for the door with Sam not far behind, "What are you going to be doing?"

"Finding our buyer."

The walk back to the saloon passed in silence. Dean watched his feet pass over the planks in the walkway as he contemplated how he was going to convince Castiel to hold up in a room with him while Sam went around looking for the necklace. Images sprang to his mind of the bartender gagged and tied to a chair. He could work with that idea, or at least put it on the back burner. He would _try_ to talk to the guy first, because no doubt Sam was going to hover over his shoulder to make sure he played nice.

Sure enough, as soon as Dean stepped into the saloon and headed toward where Castiel appeared to be setting up stock for the day, Sam was right on his heels. Close enough that when Dean abruptly stopped, Sam bumped into his side. He shot his younger brother a look to make him back off a few paces. Dean took a moment to prepare himself - rolling his shoulders and neck, drawing in and holding his breath. He was going to be calm. _Calm._ Dean let out the air and strode over to the bar. "Hey Cas - er, Castiel."

Blue eyes flicked up to the mirror behind the bottles, meeting Dean's gaze through the medium, then he returned his attention to his work. "May I help you?"

The cordial way Castiel responded made Dean want to be difficult with the man. It wouldn't kill the man to show a bit of annoyance. Dean had assaulted him yesterday and he was damn sure it hadn't been forgotten considering he could see the bruise coloring Castiel's jaw even under the five o'clock shadow. Dean studied the man in the mirror, feeling the smallest tinge of guilt at the red split near the corner of Castiel's lips. He debated with the idea of apologizing, at least until he remembered they were even as far as exchanging blows went.

Dean shifted his gaze to examine his own reflection and instantly scowled. For crying out loud - why hadn't Sam said anything. Dean had taken a hit to the nose, but where his bruising showed up was in faint dark circles around the inside corner of his eyes. Looked like a damn raccoon. Dean shook it off and pinned his gaze on Castiel's turned back. "I think we got off on the wrong foot."

Castiel continued to set up his bottles.

Feeling his jaw tense up with irritation, Dean pivoted to look at Sam. His brother gave him a patient look, gesturing with hands for Dean to remain calm. Dean rubbed at the scruff on his jaw, shaking his head in disbelief that he was going to go through with this stupidity. He swung back around, "Listen. You don't like me, I don't like you and we both got our reasons. My reason is better but regardless let's just put our differences aside and have ourselves a talk."

Which would mostly consist of Dean talking and Castiel listening. The bartender must have sensed this, because Castiel did little but glance back up in the mirror for a brief few seconds. The soft clink of bottles tapping together was the only response.

"You're not working today," Dean concluded.

Sam, sensing some lit fuse in the works, chose then to jump in and damper the situation. "What my brother means is that we have reason to believe your life may be in danger and it would be best if you avoided public places."

Dean felt the way he'd put it was better, more simple and better yet – less namby-pamby sounding.

Castiel finally turned and slowly looked from one brother to the other. Dean could read the suspicion there, even if the mask Castiel wore was, for the most part, indifferent. The bartender busied himself behind the bar, and Dean found himself a bit awed when a glass was set in front of him and a finger of whiskey poured. Castiel set the bottle on the bar before addressing Sam. "You think this because of why?"

Dean smirked to himself, noticing that he wasn't t he only one that stumbled a bit when presented with Castiel's short-spoken ways. He hide his amused smile behind the glass of whiskey.

"Because.. erm.. "

Castiel didn't break eye-contact, and even though Sam struggled for words, the bartender didn't look away. Dean stifled a chuckle.

"There's been two deaths in the last two days, both of them happened right outside your business. Dean said–"

"Dean?"

Sam paused, thrown off-kilter by being interrupted mid-speech. His pointed awkwardly at where Dean leaned against the barn. "My brother, Dean." Sam looked between the other two, ending on Dean. "He doesn't even know your name?"

"We didn't have time to exchange pleasantries," Dean managed to say without laughing.

His brother's expression edged toward pissed, likely more to do with Dean's brazen attitude than the subject at hand. His voice remained level, "Dean said someone came to your window so.."

Dean caught the look from the corner of his eyes and quickly picked up where Sam trailed off, "So it looked like one of the men we've been hunting and for some reason he's after you. Tonight," He grinned through the familiar lie, "You and me are going to be bunkies."

Sam didn't look too pleased by the turn Dean had chosen in their story, but all the same he lifted the silver-pointed star of the long dead U.S. Marshal. It was hard for anyone to argue against that badge. Which would probably explain the overly smug look on Dean's face.

"What does this have to do with banshees and demons?"

Dean choked, sputtering on the last of his drink. The whiskey dripped down the front of his chin. He set the glass against the bar while putting forth an uneasy smile. "Aha.. Cas.. you.. joker you."

Sam was not fooled, but he did little more than glare disapprovingly at Dean. That was the perk about being in a public place, and having a third party witness, Sam wasn't likely to pitch a fit. All the same, Dean avoided meeting Sam's gaze. Instead he turned toward the mirror behind the bar to mop at his chin.

"Deal with this, Dean." With those words, Sam headed for the street.

"You better bring me some grub later!" Dean called after him. Then, as soon as the batwing doors went still, Dean let the smile drop and drilled the bartender with a glare. "This is how it's going to work. I'm going to make a quick stop by the general store, if you're not here when I come back I will hunt you down and shoot you on the principle you wasted my time. Comprende Pancho?"

Castiel's eyes narrowed in question, but after a moment he responded in a defeated tone of voice, "Do I have a choice in the matter?"

"No."

Castiel's head shook in a way that reminded Dean of Sam's eye rolls. Still, he didn't argue. "I will need to find someone to fill in for my unexpected absence."

"Do what you need to do," Dean mused while checking his empty glass for any last drop of whiskey - of which he quickly threw back before moving toward the exit. "And do it quick. Like I said, you better be here by the time I get back."

"It's redundant."

Dean paused where he had his hand on the smooth curve of one of the batwing doors. He thought better of turning around and asking for clarification, because the answer he was likely to get would probably irritate him more than the original statement. All the same, Dean found himself pivoting over heel to peer back at the bartender. "What's what?"

"Redundant," Castiel repeated. "It is redundant to go through the trouble of protecting me only to keep threatening my life."

The older hunter grit his teeth. Various responses flew through his head, mainly about how it was _Sam_ that wanted to protect Castiel, and Dean was only doing it to appease his brother. He couldn't care less about Castiel. He pushed open the door, "Just be here."

And he left.

* * *

_**A/N:**__ Something of a filler chapter that took me a while to write, oddly. Now that I'm done with it I debate just skipping it, but whatever. If I did, I'd spend the next chapter explaining why Dean was back in a room alone with Castiel. As much as I don't care for Sam, it's ridiculously easy to write him in a scene with Dean. They just constantly pick at each other when they're not talking about a case. I enjoy it, I hope it's interesting enough to the readers. If someone skimmed over it all, well, let me know. I try to keep things as fluid and flowing as possible. I also post this as I write it, so I won't be surprised that sometime later I will look back and go 'God, why did I write this stupid chapter'._

_Thank you for the reviews! I love to hear the feedback :)_


	8. The Wayward Shepherd

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Supernatural or the characters.

* * *

**Chapter Eight: **The Wayward Shepherd

**By: **Zavijah

"I don't understand."

Dean glanced up from where he was pouring a line of salt along the jam of the locked door. His gaze remained impassive as he looked at Castiel as if dumping salt around the guy's room was a completely normal affair. It was in the life of a Winchester. He shook out a little more salt from the bag he'd purchased down at the general store and headed toward the window. He could feel Castiel's relentless gaze follow him across the room.

"Why do you insist on desecrating my floor?"

Dean smirked as he filled the window sill with salt, "Actually salt is known for its purity."

"It is still making a mess."

"Yeah well," Dean peered through the closed window to make sure no one was in the alley and peeking in on them. "You'll thank me later."

"Only if you are planning to clean up after yourself. You also have avoided answering my question, why are you pouring salt on my floor?"

It was going to be a long day. Dean hoped Sam was prompt in finding this hoodoo-y necklace, because he wasn't sure how long his patience would hold out against Castiel's inquiries. If it wasn't for the man's deeply graveled voice, he would have pegged the man as a child. Adults at least had a sense of dignity to pretend they knew what was going on, to play it cool, but Castiel questions were reminiscent of _ I don't understand, why is the sky blue_ _- where do babies come from?_ Or maybe Dean saw it that way because he had to cook up some believable reason to explain why the salt needed to be on the floor without harming anybody's sensitive perception of reality.

"It repels evil." So much for making up a story, or at the very least brushing the subject aside. Dean had to admit, the confusion that furrowed so deeply on Castiel's expression was _kind of_ endearing. Mostly annoying because it would no doubt prompt a follow-up question.

"Dean," Castiel sounded like he was attempting to talk down a snarling wolf. "Salt is not going to stop a man, good or evil, from entering this room. It's just salt."

The bag of salt was dropped to the floor next to the window. When Dean straightened and looked toward Castiel, he nearly burst out in laughter with how utterly lost the man looked. It was entirely too amusing. Dean was accustom to getting the 'you're crazy' looks from people, but this one was the cream of the crop. He pulled his lower lip through his teeth to get his game face back in order. "Maybe you're right," His hand descended to pat his holstered pistol. "This will stop what the salt doesn't."

"While I understand that logic, I still do not grasp the purpose of the salt."

Dean sauntered over to where Castiel stood in the middle of the room as an uneasy sentinel to the whole process. "Hey Cas, you like stories, right?"

The man looked frustrated that once again Dean dismissed the question, but all the same he couldn't leave Dean's question unacknowledged. "Yes, but–"

Before he could put up too much of a resistance, Dean had grabbed Castiel's shoulders and spun him around. It only took a light shove to make the shorter man step back - and promptly fall into the chair behind him. Even with a rumpled shirt, a tousle of dark hair, and a pair of slightly widened eyes; Castiel maintained his composure. The mild surprise vanished when Dean shoved a book into his chest. Castiel's fingers curled reflexively around the cover while he gave the honey-haired man a tedious stare.

"Here," Dean smiled at his own sense of humor. "Read a story."

It took a moment for Castiel to stop staring at him and instead look down at the book in his hands. Dean's lips stretched a bit further. _He_ thought it was amusing to having picked out the 'fables' published by the Grimm brothers. Castiel didn't appear to appreciate the irony. He continued to stare, which served to make a grinning Dean feel quite awkward. He absently cleared his throat, "Are you telling me you read all these books and don't know a lick of folklore?"

Castiel looked down at the book now settled in his lap. A brow arched, "I believe Hansel and Gretel used bread crumbs, not salt. I still do not understand the reference you are trying to use in order to explain your actions. If you would just _answer me_, I could better understand your delusion."

"Do you always keep your shutters closed?"

"What.. " Castiel lightly sighed in frustration. ".. I don't understand what shutters have to do with the conversation."

Dean chuckled, a soft sound that he tucked in toward his chest. The way Castiel took things to the absolute literal sense was astounding, and frankly headache inducing. "You're lucky I'm a nice guy, Castiel." A soft grunt of disagreement came from the bartender, but Dean opted to ignore it. "And because I am a nice guy, I'm going to do you a favor."

It only took him a moment to fetch a wooden chair from the corner of the room and a bottle of whiskey from the crate near the door. Dean paused when he noticed the salt along the floor had fallen through the cracks between the boards. That wouldn't do - not at all. Dean's lips tightened, but he said nothing. He found a small end table to drag over, setting it between Castiel's chair and his own. The bottle was placed between them before he grabbed the bag of salt and returned. He spared Castiel an apologetic look before he proceeded to dump a ring of salt on the rug beneath the two chairs.

Castiel responded to this injustice by palming his features.

"We are.." Dean set the salt back down and glanced around the room until he found a pair of discarded glasses. Not the cleanest, but Dean wasn't picky. He'd seen and used worse, "going to play a game."

He placed one glass in front of Castiel, filled it with a shot of whiskey, then did the same for his own glass. "You want answers and so do I."

"You could just answer the question," Castiel dryly commented while reaching for his glass.

Dean knocked the hand aside, "How this works is I'll ask a question, if you don't answer - you drink. If you answer, it's your turn to ask me a question."

An unimpressed gaze from sapphire blue eyes met Dean's proposal, "Are drinks really necessary for this?"

"That's what makes it a game," And in Dean's opinion, the bartender needed a few to loosen up because the all-too-serious and literal front was going to eat through what little was left of Dean's patience. "I'll even let you ask the first question."

Castiel took his time in deciding whether or not he wanted to play. First he was simply staring back at Dean, who refused to look away. Then the man's dark blue eyes were falling to the salted rug with a frown. He looked at the book still between his hands. He touched fingers to the bruised side of his jaw and Dean _knew_ the guy was toying around with what question to ask first. Cogs were turning about in Castiel's head, and Dean could only imagine what questions were being formed. Come time for his own turn, Dean would make it easy at first, then slowly make the questions harder to make sure Castiel had a good amount of swill in him before Dean asked the hard questions. Alcohol had a way of loosening a man's tongue.

"What did you mean when you asked about me keeping my shutters closed? There are no shutters on my window."

Dean nearly let his head fall forward enough to hit his forehead off the table. Out of all the possible questions Castiel could have asked, Dean hadn't anticipated _that_ one. It was an odd thing to be curious about. A waste of time, really, and most of all Dean was disappointed that he didn't have a good excuse to refuse an answer and drink his whiskey. He would answer, this time, because he had the feeling that Castiel did not grasp the concept of the game.

"Because," Dean was tempted to leave it at that. "You don't seem to have a free thought in your head. You seem very _close_ minded, that's why I asked if you always keep your shutters closed."

"So the shutters are metaphorical," Castiel concluded.

Dean closed his eyes, willing himself not to respond to the statement that was better left as an internal thought. It would have been less embarrassing. Although, Castiel didn't look ashamed. Dean was starting to think the guy was a bit _slow_ in the head.

"I'm not close—"

"Shh," Dean's fingers came up and had the deserved effect of silencing Castiel. "It's my turn. You and that red-head, Anna, something going on between you?"

"Going on.. ?"

"You know, have you two ever had a romp between the sheets?"

Castiel's expression darkened, "That is inappropriate to ask."

"It's my question, I'll ask what I want, so either answer or drink up."

"No, Anna and I have never _romped._" Castiel stated plainly.

So maybe she was a sister, or a cousin, or a relative by marriage. The guy had been pretty damn protective over the woman when Dean had did little but flirt with her. Maybe Castiel was fawning after her and was too damn awkward to make a move, or she turned him down. Dean mulled over the possibilities until he noticed the growing quiet. "It's your turn to ask a question, Cas."

"Ah," Castiel's eyes flicked toward the floor, "Why did you pour salt on my floor.. and rug."

At least the guy was playing. It just wasn't as fun without out the tricky questions Dean had anticipated and enjoyed avoiding either with a clever choice of words or behind a false smile. Dean could have drank to the current question, but figured it was more rewarding to watch Castiel stew with a dozen other questions that Dean would have the opportunity to deny.

"Salt is considered pure, so anything unnatural can't step over it. Like I said earlier," He winked. "It repels evil."

"An evil man is not unnatural. Does this have to do with–"

"Cas, you're going to have to save that question for when it's your turn."

"That is hardly fair. You have not fully answered the—"

Dean smirked, "Deal with it. People aren't books, you're not going to get an in-depth explanation. You're going to have to learn to read between the lines, or ask better questions."

Castiel glowered, "I do not like this game. Your evasive nature makes it frustrating."

The corner of Dean's eyes crinkled with suppressed mirth, "If not Anna, who is it that tangles in your sheets?"

Blue eyes sharpened, alarmed, before flicking off to the side. Dean was mildly surprised when Castiel took the glass of whiskey and downed the shot. The bartender's nose wrinkled in distaste as he set the glass on the table. A second later he stood and stepped out of the salt ring.

"Hey! You can't leave - get back here. It's still my turn to ask you a question until you answer one."

Castiel waved dismissively. Dean was half-way out of his chair to stop him, but sank back down when he noticed Castiel had stopped at the crates next to the locked door. After a bit of fishing around he came back to the table with bottle of bourbon. Dean snorted, checked the salt line, then went back to the game. So far he was gathering that Castiel was a reserved man that grew defensive at the talk of _romping. _Dean could only think of one reason to explain it, "You have tango'd between the sheets with a woman, right?"

Castiel was pouring himself a finger of liquor from the new bottle. Dean's brows slowly rose, taking the extended silence for a negative answer. Oh, that was just an embarrassing—

"I had a wife."

–and Dean promptly felt like an jackass. More so as he watched Castiel throw back the drink even though he had answered the question. It was a bad subject, obviously, but Dean couldn't help but feel a little curious. _Had _a wife - had she died, or left? Dean could easily imagine both possibilities. Castiel was either broken enough from a lost wife to create the oddity before Dean, or the guy was odd enough to drive a sane woman away. Dean couldn't decide which scenario he wanted to place a bet on.

It was a long, quiet moment before Castiel spoke, "I know you are lying about the reason you, and your brother, created to get me away from the bar."

"That doesn't sound like a question, Cas."

Castiel slowly turned his weighted gaze onto Dean, and the hunter really wish he hadn't because it felt like a spotlight had honed in on him. Dean lifted his brows, expecting the question to come along at any moment.

"Why?"

That was a broad end question, one Dean didn't care to guess at the meaning behind. Instead he finally took the shot of whiskey he had been wanting from the start. He made a mental note to himself to pour himself more than a sliver next time because he wasn't sure when he was going to get another drink. "Try again."

"Do you know a man named Michael."

It was curious how Castiel spoke his questions, always lacking the lift of tone at the end; sounding like something between a statement and a command. Dean noted this even as little alarm bells linked to his suspicion meter went off. He had known a lot of men and women over his travels, but hell if he remembered all of their names. Michael wasn't a name that was leaping out at him right away even though it sounded important to Castiel. A slow smile spread across Dean's face and he calmly reached for the bottle of whiskey, poured himself a new glass and brought it to his lips.

Sometimes the reaction to the lack of answer was more telling than the answer itself. Dean was not disappointed, because as the silence stretched between them, Castiel looked more and more uncomfortable. Dean savored his drink, calmly meeting Castiel's sapphire gaze all the while. "Try again."

The muscle along the back of Castiel's jaw jumped. Dean felt delighted, even thought he knew it was wrong, but there was something in him that liked seeing the other man nervous. It thrilled him the way a predator reveled in the scent of fear. It pleased him beyond words to know that Castiel was indeed hiding something; that he had been right to be suspicious. He didn't know _what_, but Castiel was doing a good job of exposing himself rather than Dean trying to uproot some hidden secret.

Castiel poured himself a new drink, his eyes anywhere but on Dean. The hunter bided his time by filling his own glass, abandoning the rules of the game. Castiel made him wait too long to drink. It was rude. Dean watched the bartender shift uneasily on the other side of the table - more particularly to the fingers that lifted to loosen the knot of the tie. Yeah, the guy was definitely nervous. Dean couldn't quite curb the predatory edge to his smile. "So how do you know Michael?"

"I.. don't."

Grinning ear to ear, Dean leaned against the table to try and catch Castiel's evasive gaze, "You're a terrible liar."

Castiel's jaw firmed, "Business."

"What kind of business?"

"None of your business," Castiel growled.

Dean's smile turned wolfish in light of the challenge presented to him. "Funny."

The alcohol gradually disappeared from there, filling the silence stretching between the two men. Dean was just trying to keep a lid on his temper. His fingers were itching to grab the loosened tie and drag the sullen bartender over the table. Violent urges were not all that new to Dean, but what he didn't understand was how easily Castiel's attitude, or words, got under his skin. Dean had always prided himself in being impervious to everyone else's opinion. It's not like he _cared_ what Castiel thought. The guy just didn't act right. Dean had developed a certain mentality about people - mainly that they were sheep, and Castiel seemed to be the black one mixed in the herd that didn't spook when Dean lunged.

Around Dean's sixth or so drink, Castiel broke the thickening silence. "You don't know Michael."

"Took you long enough to decide that," Dean mused with a smirk. "How can you be so sure I don't know him."

"The salt."

Dean laughed, this time unable to catch it before it escaped past his lips, "So we're back to the salt."

"Yes," Castiel's brow furrowed as he once again took in the sight of the white ring circling their chairs. "It is very.. strange."

"How insightful."

Castiel grumbled at Dean's mocking tone, "It makes no sense, neither does you sitting here protecting me."

"It ever cross your mind that maybe he wants you alive?"

The bartender paused at that, his gaze distancing while his glass hovered just in front of his parted lips. After a moment of thought he shook his head, "He is not the type."

Dean's brow arched, "The type to stick you in a salt ring?"

"The type to bother keeping someone alive."

A chill swept across the back of Dean's neck as those impossibly blue eyes settled on him. The weight attached to those few words filled Dean's mind with darkness. The sad thing was that he knew it was the truth, because nothing could be so harsh and ugly as the truth.

"Lucifer on the other hand.."

Dean's brow wrinkled at the name - now he was pretty sure he had heard that one somewhere. For some reason it reminded him of a church. It could have been any church, but the one Dean imagined was a small schoolhouse church with a bell in the steeple, pretty stained glass windows, white picket fence with peeling paint. It was one of the few he had ever stepped inside of; not to pray, but to track down a vampire. So much for the notion of holy ground.

"Cas, you're mixed up with some bad people, aren't you."

The bartender's head tilted, thoughtful to Dean's assumption, but the disagreement was written plainly across his face. "They're not bad people."

"I'm getting the feeling they are bad people, and I have a pretty good instinct when it comes to pointing out bad stuff.."

"I.. you wouldn't understand." Castiel's dismayed tone dropped to a near whisper. "It's complicated."

"Humor me."

Dean didn't know what he expected. The first few shots had done well to boost his confidence and he was pretty damn sure whatever Castiel had dubbed complicated really wasn't compared to his own life. An odd thing to be arrogant over, but Dean lifted his chin all the same. Thus when Castiel coolly eyed him, said nothing, and downed another glass of bourbon; Dean grit his teeth in annoyance. It wasn't as if he wanted to hear Castiel's life story. When the issue of the banshee, or whatever, was taken care of, Dean would leave this town and its people behind him. Nothing here mattered.

"Yeah, well, I don't care anyway."

He _didn't_.

The hunter turned away to gaze toward the lone window. The only view it provided was that of the neighboring building. Not even an interesting distraction. All the same Dean stared blankly at the glass coated on the outside with a thin layer of dirt left by the wind constantly stirring through the frontier. The silence once again settled between the two men. The occasional stiff breeze, or clink of bottle to glass, broke the quiet mood but no words were exchanged. Each man privy to his own thoughts and drink.

Dean wasn't sure when he had fallen asleep, but he slowly became aware of how he was uncomfortably slouched over the small table. He stretched out his lower back with a grimace, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and froze when he became aware of a murmuring. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention as images flashed through his mind's eyes of the old haggard woman pointing her thin arm through the window and grasping for him.

He didn't want to look toward the window, dreading what he might find, but the murmur wasn't stopping. Dean's eyes slowly slid over to the appropriate wall and widened. Not only was the hag standing there outside the opened window, Castiel was standing on the inside, doubled at the waist with his head bent low toward the woman's moving lips.

The chair beneath Dean was knocked backwards as the hunter sprang forward. Curses flew through his head; ones mostly aimed at Castiel for not only leaving the salt circle, but opening the damn window for the banshee. He should let the bartender get killed for not heeding Dean's advice. A passing thought, because Dean was still moving before he could even fully gripe about the situation. His hands were on Castiel's shirt collar and he violently yanked the man away from the window. He quickly grabbed a handful of sat from the window sill and threw it at the old woman.

Nothing happened.

At least nothing that Dean had expected to happen.

The old woman sputtered as she backed away from the window. She wiped feebly at her eyes, then upon seeing Dean inside the window frame her bony finger once again extended toward him. Her crackled voice came out, but for the life of him Dean couldn't make out the words. Whatever she was spitting at him, it was some form of outrage. Her anger grew in volume, almost a scream, and the next thing Dean knew she was throwing laundry at him.

Dean's facial expression was carefully blank, but his confusion was reaching a colossal size.

He caught the shirt thrown at him. White, clean; a long sleeved button up that looked familiar. Dean's gaze tracked back over to Castiel, who was watching him with silent questioning. It was almost a pitying look, which served to prick at Dean's temper, but at the moment he felt too abash to act on anger. A heat was spreading through his cheeks and he adverted his gaze to the raving old woman. She had thrown several more garments in the window and had now retreated toward the street.

Dean was still staring after her as Castiel came up to the window sill. He picked up the clothes, draping them over his arm before he poked his head out the window. "Thank you Miss Morse."

"She uh.. " Dean swallowed with a throat that had suddenly gone dry.

"Miss Morse does laundry for various people around town, myself included."

He had just thrown salt in the face of the town's washer woman. Dean tried to smile, but what came out was a weak attempt that crumpled as soon as it formed, "Not a banshee."

Castiel turned a concerned look on Dean, "As far as I know, no."

Dean remained awkwardly by the ajar window, simply watching as Castiel picked up the rest of the clothes, folded them and proceeded to put them away. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Suddenly all the salt on the floor did seem like a silly thing. Dean ruefully rubbed at his forehead. The whole day of sitting there with Castiel had become a complete waste. No one was coming for either of them. Whatever was killing people in town wasn't a banshee. Yet it _was_ targeting people with a similarity: the necklace.

"Sammy," Dean whispered the name with alarm. He quickly tried to quell the distress working up a frantic beat in his heart. Dean moved back toward the center of the room. The clock on the wall near the door revealed that it was well into the evening - damn him for falling asleep. "Cas," His voice louder now but only thinly veiling the rising panic. "Did my brother stop by?"

Sam was suppose to have brought him some food since Dean had played jailor to Castiel.

Castiel was busy with packing a dresser drawer, "No."

_Shit._

Dean rubbed at his chin. It was probably nothing. Sam probably just got busy. Oh hell, Dean couldn't sit around stewing with the doubt. He made for the door, but stopped a foot shy of grabbing the brass knob. He didn't have the first idea where to look for his brother.

"Cas," His voice broke, drawing the bartender's attention away from the clothes. Dean swallowed, steeling his nerves before starting again. It went against everything fiber in his body to ask the other man for help. He almost choked on the words. "If someone bought a necklace recently, who do you think would know the buyer?"

"Balthazar would probably know."

Dean's mind momentarily hinged on the name, but he shook the feeling aside. "Take me to him."

Castiel didn't move.

The anger threatened to boil over, but for once Dean held it back and took a different approach. "Please."

The single word, spoken with the quiet desperation Dean felt at the need to find his brother, had a visible effect on the bartender. The man's intense gaze soften, dropped to the floor, and when it raised back up to Dean it was once back hardened into indifference. Even if Castiel had shoved the compassion aside, he still nodded and made for the door. It was already unlocked, which meant Castiel had probably left at some point while Dean was still asleep. For once the hunter didn't care. He followed at Castiel's heels, urging the dark-haired man to walk more quickly.

The saloon was full and Dean couldn't get out fast enough. Castiel was careful about the way he picked his way through the crowd where as Dean wanted to shove people aside to get to the doors. Later Dean would blame his less than sober state, and not the onset of panic, for the way he nearly plowed Castiel over when the man came to an abrupt stop. Blue eyes were wide and staring at a man they had shouldered past. Dean didn't look, just grabbed Castiel's arm and hauled the smaller man the rest of the way out of the saloon. He didn't have time to waste. Whatever Castiel saw (like some boozer trying to cope a feel on Anna) could wait until later; finding Sam was more important.

Castiel stumbled, helped along by Dean's unrelenting grip. He tore away once they were outside and in the street. His blue eyes were on the horses hitched along the posts. The same confusion Dean was growing accustom to seeing knitted across the bartender's brow. Dean once again grabbed at the crook of Castiel's arm. "What is it? Because I don't have time for this, I need to find my brother before someth– _someone_ kills him."

Dean watched as the other continued to stare at the horses, something akin to shock etched on his features. Dean jerked him around, "Cas!"

"Okay," Castiel responded, dazed. He took one last glance at the horses outside before shaking his head. Words were mumbled, but too faint for Dean to hear. He didn't much care because Castiel had turned away from the saloon and was leading them elsewhere. Dean looked over his shoulder just in case. _He_ didn't see anything unusual; just horses. Castiel _had_ been drinking a good bit before Dean feel asleep and not everyone had the hunter's iron-clad constitution.

Whatever it was, it didn't matter.

* * *

_**A/N: **__Yes, I mislead you all. She's just a washerwoman - joke's on you and Dean! Now you have to ask yourself if I'm just misleading you again. Did Castiel really see something worth seeing in the bar, or is he just semi-drunk. Tut, don't be worrying about that, because isn't Sam missing - or does it just seem like he's gone? I'm a brat, I know. Just like, what did you ya'll expect in this chapter, a bit of hanky-panky? Pah, they hardly know each other! Anyway, I apologize if this chapter reads a bit choppy. The only time I've had to write the last few days is between 9pm and 11pm. It's the only time I have to myself and usually I'm just freakin' tired from the day. I'm not completely happy with this chapter, but alas I don't want to stall a week re-writing it._

_A quick shout out to Schmuzz who is the author of "Cheap Venetian Blinds". Great story, check it out!_


	9. Into the Setting Sun

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural or the characters. Ben & Jerry's is awesome.

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**Chapter Nine: **Into the Setting Sun

**By: **Zavijah

Castiel looked pale by the time they reached the large house on the edge of town. Dean caught the bartender stealing glances back down the street the entire way. It tugged at his own sense of paranoia enough to make him cast a glance over his shoulder a couple of times as well. However, having filled his quota of suspicious rabbit trails, Dean refused to allow his wary mind to get worked up over nothing again. Sam was going to have a good laugh at him. Dean would find him, soon, and when he regaled him with the tale of how he had thrown salt into the face of the washerwoman he had thought was a banshee, his younger brother would laugh until he was blue in the face.

Everything would be fine.

Dean used the door frame as a brace while Castiel pounded the meat of his fist against the door. The wood shook with several booming knocks. The ache behind Dean's eyes, brought on by a day of too much drink and not enough food, throbbed in unison to the noise. Despite the loud knock, it still took several moments of waiting (and Dean watching Castiel nervously shift his weight) before the door opened.

"Cassy," Balthazar cocked his head to the side, pale blue eyes shimmering with a mix of amusement and curiosity. He didn't bat an eye at Dean. "I didn't expect to see you. Not that I am complaining, but your presence does warrant a fair bit of questioning. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this afternoon?"

Before Castiel could do more than open his mouth with response, Dean spilled forward. He fisted the front of Balthazar's loose shirt and shoved the man backwards, taking them both out of public view and into the privacy of the room beyond. He slammed the trader against the far wall with one hand while the other held his loaded pistol steady with the man's face. "Where's Sam."

Balthazar chuckled, his empty hands held chest high in a complying gesture. "Really, I don't have the foggiest of who you are talking about. Castiel, do you mind?"

"He won't," came Castiel's graveled reply.

Dean glanced side-long at the bartender, well aware of the dark blue eyes fixed intently on his profile. He cocked his pistol to demonstrate how very serious he was about his threat.

"Castiel," Balthazar didn't take his gaze away from where Dean's finger grazed over the trigger. "You may not worry when a man has a knife to your throat, but I do not share in your blind faith in people."

Castiel sighed, "He won't."

Dean turned the muzzle of his revolver aside, firing into the wall next to Balthazar's head. It left his ears ringing for a couple of seconds, "All you need to know is that I _will_ fire the next round into your head if you don't answer me. Where's Sam?"

"Dean."

Jaw tightening, Dean first tried to ignore the insistence behind Castiel's tone. Yet he could feel those blue eyes boring into the side of his features. Castiel wasn't going to yield, but neither was Dean. The hunter kept his hazel eyes on the blank mask Balthazar had firmed into place; no longer smiling.

"You will not kill Balthazar."

"Like hell I won't," Dean growled, again pulling back the pistol hammer with his thumb.

"You want his help. It would be detrimental to kill him."

What ticked Dean off more than the fact Castiel was right, was how sure the bastard sounded as he spoke those simple words. Castiel didn't know the first thing about him, how could he be so certain that Dean wouldn't take out a measly trader to get what he wanted. Dean was tempted to shoot Balthazar just to disprove Castiel's assumption.

"Balthazar is a great deal more cooperative, and honest–" Castiel's eyes narrowed briefly on the Englishman. "–when his life is not being threatened."

Dean shot a glare at Castiel - who had somehow taken on Sam's role of peacekeeper. He shoved Balthazar for good measures before backing off. He ease the hammer of his pistol to an unarmed position, holstered his gun, but didn't take his hand off the grip. After disengaging another stride, Dean angled Castiel between himself and the trader. "Where's Sam?"

"You keep asking that and expect to get an answer in return," Balthazar stood from the wall and smoothed the creases out of his shirt. "I don't know a Sam, and if I'm fairly sure I don't want to know him."

"His brother," Castiel began, assuming the role of translator between the feral man on one side, and the proud man on the other. "Is a tall man, brown hair, young–"

"The moose that broke into my house yesterday?" Balthazar scoffed. "Figures."

Dean's fingers curled angrily around his pistol, "Where _is he?_"

"Excuse me," Balthazar sneered, "Explain to me why I would bother with knowing the where-abouts of your lover?"

Castiel intersected Dean before the hunter could close the distance between himself and the trader. Dean pressed against the hand palmed against his sternum. Castiel was half turned into him, making himself a solid barrier to hold Dean back. The contact did well to quell Dean's temper; not snuff it completely, but where there was once a flame only a dim smolder remained. All it would take was a decent gust to kick his temper back up into a blaze.

"Balthazar," Castiel wearily toned, the sigh plain in his expression. "It is my understanding that Sam was looking for someone who may have bought something from you recently."

"The one that purchased Mrs. Owen's necklace, no doubt. I can guess that much on my own."

Dean pressed against Castiel's restraining hand, "Where's the buyer?"

A mocking smile spread across Balthazar's features, "It astounds me that you think I have any reason to help you."

"Because if you _don't_—"

"_Please_," Castiel pled, though it came out as a growl through gritted teeth. His fingers had lightly curled into Dean's shirt to keep the hunter in place. "There is no need to quarrel. It would be easier to just answer the question."

As easy as that, Dean felt his chest twinge with guilt. It had little to do with how rash he was behaving in the situation, but seeing how stressed Castiel was becoming over Balthazar not answering the questions, and knowing how he himself had acted earlier about answering the bartender's simple inquiries. Dean's chin sank toward his chest.

"Maybe if he asks nicely," quipped the trader.

The humble moment Dean had been experiencing vanished. His teeth bared in a feral smile, "My courtesy comes in the form of _not_ shooting you _if_ you answer my question."

"Oh please," Balthazar rolled his eyes "Castiel, be a dear and lead your one trick pony off my property before I send him to boothill."

"I'll one trick pony _you_," Dean knew it was a weak comeback, but he was just so fed up with words. He really just wanted to pistol whip the smug trader, but Castiel was proving to be a very solid obstacle. A force to be reckoned with Dean soon realized when Castiel grabbed him by the gun belt and arm, prompting dragging him toward the exit. The _hell_, he was being thrown out! Dean bent his knees, battling against the strong tow Castiel had on him.

Dark blue eyes, narrowed to near slits, snapped onto Dean with an intensity that made the hunter balk. It caught Dean off guard how Castiel went from quiet, helpful and on the side of submissive - then a flip switches and Dean felt like was staring down the wrath of God.

"I am trying to help you," Castiel's tone was carefully level in volume, but each word growled and hinted toward an accent previously gone unnoticed. Castiel's fingers tightened on Dean's arm, "That you insist on acting like a buck in rut has not made it easy."

Dean's shoulders squared and he shot a heated look back toward Balthazar, "I need to find Sam."

A powerful jerk swung him around, the next moment Castiel had Dead nearly out the door. "You appear more interested in continuing a pissing contest than finding your brother."

Outrage had Dean nearly seeing red. _How dare_ this man insinuate that Dean wasn't concerned about finding his brother. This was _Sam_ they were talking about and there wasn't a damn thing Dean wouldn't do to find him. If Dean had any purpose on this god-forsaken earth, it was to watch out for his little brother. Dean's fingers curled into a tight fist and he was tempted to direct his anger at Castiel's face. His arm actually shook with how much he just wanted to lash out; to express what his words could not.

"I think I might know where to find your brother."

Dean's gaze widened, a good portion of his anger evaporating. "Why didn't you say so in the first place!?"

Castiel glowered at him, but whatever argument that might have been stirring behind the look, the bartender let it slid. Instead he stepped through the door and Dean didn't question it, just followed suit to dog at Castiel's heels.

"Why in Sam Hill's name did you waste my time with that Saphead?"

"Balthazar," Dean could hear the patience thinning in Castiel's voice. "Would have helped if you hadn't made several threats on his life. He does not respond well to demands. You have a strange way of asking people for help."

The words made Dean bristle, but he kept his mouth shut in light of having no interest in continuing the conversation. Yeah, he knew he had trouble asking for help. It involved placing his trust in someone he didn't know and he just couldn't do that without some sort of collateral. A man who had his life on the line was less likely to hoodwink him; to stab him in the back. People rarely did things out of the kindness of their hearts. He had zero faith in humanity, so why should he risk trusting someone?

Dean lifted his chin, "I could have taken him."

At once Dean felt the tension lessen between them. Castiel glanced back at him, and Dean would have sworn there was the barest hint of smile present on the corner of lips. The bartender quickly covered the reaction with a derisive snort, "You are a very arrogant man."

"I could have."

"You don't know the first thing about Balthazar."

Dean quickened his pace to side along Castiel, "And I suppose you do."

"Yes," Castiel's glanced side-long at him. "I do. Balthazar and I have known each other for a long time."

"Where does a man even get a name like that - _Balthazar_."

Again there was a faint quirk - a ghost of a smile - passing momentarily over Castiel's features. Dean's own smile was mainly in his eyes. In a way the humor was his way of apologizing. The end result was the same, the tension ebbed away and the silence between them did not feel as stifling. When Dean was sure Castiel wouldn't snap at him, he ventured forth with a quiet – "Where are we going?"

"Balthazar mentioned your brother once before, he.. " The words trailed off into silence.

Dean leaned forward to catch a glimpse of Castiel's face, which was once again furrowed with brooding thoughts. "Cas?"

Blue eyes flicked toward Dean briefly before adverting, "The buyer is Bela Owens, Gene's newlywed wife."

That had suspicious colors painted all over it, "She new to town as well?"

"Relatively, yes."

As Dean's mind put it together, a new broad rides into town with her eyes on a certain necklace. The usual shoot, grab the goods, and run wouldn't work out for some reason, so she works the angle of using the son of the necklace's owner. "You don't happen to know anything about what makes this necklace so important, do you?"

"No. I believe Chester and Ted were the only ones that really knew anything about it... " Castiel's head canted as it appeared to finally dawn on the bartender that the latest deaths in town were a bit too coincidental.

There were details that Dean still couldn't grasp at - namely what made the necklace so important, why the buyer hadn't just stolen it, and how the two old men had died. He'd leave the little details to Sam - once he found him. His brother better be safe and sound, because Dean would ride through hell and back to hunt down the bitch responsible for Sam's death.

They came up to a small house. A breeze stirred, kicking up a swirl of loose dirt and making a shutter squeak and bang against the wooden walls. The curtains were drawn closed, but Dean still tried to peek in through the small gap between the cloth while Castiel approached the door. What little Dean could see was a whole lot of nothing. Even when Castiel loudly knocked on the door, nothing stirred from within the home. An uneasy feeling settled on the back of Dean's neck. As a precaution, and to settle his prickling nerves, Dean drew his gun and kept it low against his thigh as he moved on to check the next window.

A sudden movement from inside made Dean duck on instinct. Nothing came bursting out through the glass, no monster or a loosened bullet, so he cautiously peeked over the sill. What he'd seen was a leg of a man sitting in a chair - make that _tied_ to a chair. The man was gagged, but his bugged eyes were turned helplessly toward Castiel's knocking. It wasn't Sam, but it was a lead. "Cas."

The knocking stopped and Castiel's face appeared around the corner to regard Dean with a questioning curiosity.

Dean came back around to the front door. The knob was given a quick twist - locked. Dean gave the barrier a once over then, before Castiel could start forming the words to go along with those inquiring looks, Dean put his weight behind a forward kick. He caught the door next to the knob and the weathered wooden frame splintered. The door swung open and Dean quickly made his way inside before it swung back to an incomplete close.

The rooms were empty aside from the man (who was trying to speak through the gag at him). There were a couple pieces of furniture tipped over, a broken glass, but what interested Dean the most was the cracked window pane. A small hole was the cause, a pin-sized bullet hole, and after moment of debate Dean was able to determined that the shot had went out through the window.

"I don't know what happened," Came the man's panicked voice.

Dean turned around to see that Castiel had followed him inside. After removing the gag he worked to untie the man's hands and feet.

"I think she's sick - because she's acting so strangely. Should I call the doctor...?"

Castiel glanced in Dean's direction before regarding the bound man, "What happened, Gene?"

"It's Bela. She's been touched in the head, possessed or something - maybe I should ask for the priest instead."

Dean's lips twisted into an amused smile. There was the religious suspicion he found lacking in Castiel.

"What did she do?"

Gene rubbed at his wrists before he stood. He wobbled, but Castiel caught him by the arm. "I don't rightly know. I swear something has her crazed. She hit me over the head. I blacked out and when I came to it was like she was another woman."

Dean, having enough of the senseless ramble, cut in. "A man about yay-high–" His hand made a cutting motion a few inches above his head. "–come by?"

"I... " Gene blinked at him as if he was noticing him for the first time. "I didn't see anyone, but Bela - she fired at someone through the window. I can hardly believe it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. Bela was such a kind, sweet woman; too tender of heart to be handling a gun."

Uh-huh.

"Get him to the doctor," Dean said to Castiel before exiting out the back door. He found the cracked window and made a guess at its trajectory. His eyes scanned over the mess in the dirt but couldn't find anything that looked like blood. The knot unknowingly tightening over Dean's chest loosened with relief. A few more strides and Dean found the bullet hole in the side of another building. It hadn't hit his brother.

"Damnit Sammy, why didn't you come and get me."

Probably didn't want to lose Bela's trail and thought Dean was safer in some salt ring. Dean snorted. A frown soon marred his features as he gazed out into the horizon. There were still a few hours of light available to him and Dean planned to make the most of it. The hunter made haste to the barn. Inside he did note that Sam's horse was gone. All Dean could do as he saddle up his own horse was curse. How long ago had Sam left? He'd trust his brother not to go too far without first letting him know.

"Dean."

His shoulders tensed, more due to his frayed nerves than any annoyance toward the voice speaking from behind him. It just surprised him a little, that was all. Castiel had a way of walking up soft on people like some scouting Indian. Dean didn't turn, instead he shifted along the mare he had dubbed 'baby' and checked his war bags.

The silence stretched on before Castiel found his tongue, "I have... experience in tracking men."

Dean pivoted half-way, letting his hazel eyes meet briefly with Castiel's sapphire orbs. There was an unspoken question on the air, a curiosity as to why Castiel had that sort of experience. Then Dean shrugged the matter aside and shifted his attention back to the saddle straps. He was more accustom to tracking monsters, which were more like beasts, than tracking people. It crossed his mind to wonder why Castiel was offering to help but...

"Don't slow me down."

It was the only permission Dean gave before he stepped up onto his horse and steered her toward the setting sun.

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_**A/N:**__ Sam Hill was a euphuism for The Devil. I wonder if the creators of Supernatural knew that when they named Sam. Ha-rum. I enjoy writing Balthazar's snarky attitude. I can't wait for Crowley, and Lucifer. *ahem* Thank you my few reviewers, you guys mean so much to me and I appreciate your continued support so much! Also, I'm curious if anyone has made guesses about Castiel's past :3_

_Next up - Castiel chapter!_


	10. Be a Simple Kind of Man

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural or the characters.

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**Chapter Ten: **Be a Simple Kind of Man

**By: **Zavijah

_Beautiful._

There wasn't a poem in existence that could capture how amazing it felt to be under the open sky. The wind was warm against his face and carried with it the soft smell of approaching rain. Dark clouds threatened them from the horizon, but their distant rumble was but a whisper to the present. The sky was streaked with colors Castiel had almost forgotten. Reds, oranges and yellows warmed with the colors of autumn and blending into such an amazing evening skyline that it nearly left Castiel breathless. How long had it been since he last watched the sun sink below the horizon, or even witness it rise?

Too long.

Castiel limbs felt stiff, as if he had spent the past years living in the darkness of a cave and only now had crawled out to squint blindly at the world around him. It boggled his mind, his very senses, to believe he had willingly forgotten the world around him. He had shut his eyes, deafened himself, and filled his mouth with ashes. But now he could see, could hear, taste – Castiel didn't know which aspect endeared him more about the moment. The air so refreshing , the sky so boundless, the satisfying crunch of dirt beneath his boots, or the feel of the field grass dancing with the wind and caressing against his open palm.

He was enamored with it all, crouched as he was over a section of trail that had become a crossroad of conflicting prints both animal and human. He took it all in, from the feel of the leather reins in his hands, to the soft breathing of his horse beside him, to the nervous chatter of a birds hiding in the brush. He wanted to live forever in that moment.

"Find anything there, Black Eagle?"

But as with all things, it must come to an end.

Castiel shifted his gaze toward Dean with a slight frown. He wondered, briefly, if the brazen man ever stopped to look at the world the way Castiel saw it in that moment; to feel so humbled in such a vast, beautiful world. Of course, Dean was something else that Castiel found captivating. He was younger than Castiel had guessed while they were under the dull lights of the saloon. Inside, cloaked with the smells of smoke and liquor, Dean had looked older; worn to the bone. It made Castiel wonder if men came to the bar to drink their last and await death's company; if it was a place to die.

Out here, beneath the feverish glow of the setting sun, Dean's tanned skin shone healthy and young. The The light caught in Dean's hair just right to make honey tones turn golden. Castiel's memory stumbled back to when he had seen Dean bare from the waist up. There was strength there; a man hardened by a life spent in constant motion. There had been scars too, but the moment had been to fleeting and Castiel's memory wasn't so sharp to remember it all. Time faded the image, but all the same Castiel wondered how Dean might look if not for the shirt and duster.

"Is that a yes, or a no, 'cause we're losing light and if you can't tell I'm kind of in a hurry."

He'd been staring - again.

Castiel slowly blinked, turned his head aside and rose to his feet. Once again he set his gaze on the disturbed earth and willed himself not be become distracted by the beauty around him. There was too much to read there, as more than few horses, and animals, had passed by this location in the last few hours. Castiel frowned, loathed to admit his shortcoming, but shook his head anyway.

Dean snorted, "I thought you said you had experience."

"I do," The words sprung from wounded pride. Castiel's gaze hardened as Dean turned away without direction. While Castiel could surmise that Dean's hurtful words were due to a underlying worry for his lost brother, the belittling comment stung. Castiel had spent years tracking down men on the run and knew results were not always immediate. "Have patience."

"I don't have time to squander - I need to find Sam sooner, not later."

The man was infuriating, but Castiel gave him the benefit of the doubt considering the circumstances. He climbed up into saddle and directed his own mount to follow after Dean. "You lack faith in your brother."

Dean half turned in his saddle to pin Castiel with a vehement glare, "The hell is that suppose to mean?"

Again Castiel felt his features tug wearily downward in a frown. He didn't know why, but more often than not his curiosity made Dean bristle up like a hissing tom cat. The miscommunication, he knew, was not completely one-sided. The other rider often left Castiel in a river of confusion with his unusual phrasings. "I assumed–

"–yeah I bet you did."

Gritting his teeth, Castiel drew in a deep breath before continuing with a forced sense of calm. "I assumed you two did this sort of thing for a living–"

"And what makes you think that?"

_The scars on your body_.

Castiel tired of being interrupted, but once more attempted to finish his line of thought. "I would trust your brother to be able to take care of himself in this situation, but the way you respond to his absence leads me to think that you do not believe your brother can–"

"Shut up."

He did, if only because Dean's voice had dipped dangerously low. Castiel observed the troubled rider from his flanking position, once again wondering what burdens Dean constantly shouldered. Each one had etched and chiseled the man to create the sharp demeanor. The aggression was obvious, but as with all things, it had a root. It struck Castiel as a means of deflection; or a way to protect himself – from what Castiel could only blindly guess from there.

"He's my younger brother... "

Castiel's kept his surprise to himself. He hadn't expected Dean to break the silence, least of all to share something on the verge of sounding personal. He patiently waited for Dean continued, resolving to calmly watch the way Dean's body swayed in unison with the horse's movements; a well-practiced rider.

"I've always had to look after him. That was the one responsibility my dad always trusted to me: _Take care of your brother, Dean._"

"You sound bitter," The words escaped before Castiel could bite his tongue.

"Of course I am," Dean snarled, but didn't turn to face Castiel. "That's been my whole life: watch after Sammy. Without him.."

It would be a life without purpose, Castiel finished since Dean did little but shake his head, dismissing the subject. Castiel had done his fair share of wandering. Heck, he was still drifting in a spiritual sense even if he'd hung his hat in Willow's Bend. It was very draining. Today was proof enough to Castiel that without something driving him, life ceased to exist. The world had become so gray, but look at it. It was so —

_Beautiful._

Castiel drew himself out of his thoughts and shifted his attention to the landscape. The rain would be on them soon, which would wash away any signs of a trail. If they were going to find Sam it would be in these last moments of light. Castiel could already see the bright spot on the horizon, the morning and evening star that signaled that it was time to make camp. Instead the steady scuff of hoof over dirt filled the air.

Dean showed no signs of stopping.

Castiel continued to scan the horizon, picking out the potential paths a pursued rider would likely go. The depression leading into the dry wash was his main focus. If Sam had been chasing after someone, that person, Bela or whoever it had been, would have likely chosen a place out of sight. It was never easy to hide when the dry plains ahead of them were flat. A man could see for miles in such open terrain.

Only when the sky became an arc of magenta fusing into purple and ending in a dark blue pin-pointed with stars, did Castiel clear his throat, "Dean."

"Don't."

"... Dean."

"I can't stop looking Cas," Dean finally glanced in his direction. "I can't."

"Stopping to eat and rest does not mean you have given up on finding Sam."

When Dean didn't immediately snap at him, Castiel began to think his words had worked. Right up until the point Dean turned his horse aside to move away from Castiel. It was tempting to just let the stubborn man go, because trying to rein him in was like trying to corral a wild stallion; difficult, and would likely end with him sporting a few bruises. Castiel spurred his horse into a quick gait, catching up to side along Dean. He set a stern look on the younger man. "You need to be reasonable."

"You can stop, didn't say you had to come."

"Dean," Like dealing with a temperamental _child_. Castiel put his heels to his horse's flanks. The mare jumped forward, then sharply turned to neatly cut off Dean's mount. Castiel reached down, quickly grabbing the other horse's bridle so Dean couldn't storm off on him. "Running off in the dark, in a storm no less, is not going to help find Sam."

Dean attempted to pull the bridle out of Castiel's grip, "Don't make me shoot you Cas."

"You won't."

"I will if you don't let go."

"No, you won't." Castiel didn't know exactly why he felt so certain about it. It was true he knew little about Dean's history, but when he looked at Dean he didn't see a cold bloodied killer. Death was a fairly common affair in the man's life, but Castiel was willing to believe it was more about survival than anything sinister. There was an undeniable pain visible in Dean's eyes, and a crushing burden weighing on his shoulders, but there was no darkness that Castiel would relate to evil. Castiel had looked into the eyes of his fair share of evil men to know it to be true. The eyes were suppose to be the windows into the soul, and with evil men, there was no soul to see. The windows were open, but on the inside it was all stripped bare; no warmth, no life.

Dean had a soul.

... and for better or worse, Castiel had faith in him to do the right thing.

Even if it meant staring down the barrel of Dean's side arm he suddenly found pointed in his direction. Castiel lifted his chin, his blue eyes trekking up to meet Dean's steady gaze. If he was wrong, and they parted ways with Castiel lying on the dry earth with red blooming vibrantly from his chest, all Castiel would feel is sadness - and a small comfort in the fact that his last moments would be spent under the open sky with the smell of rain on the warm breeze. It wouldn't be a terrible way to go, but he would still be disappointed in Dean.

The double-click of the pistol being cocked seemed to echo in the silence, "You really don't think I'll shoot you."

Castiel didn't break eye contact, "I believe you are a good man."

"You don't know a damn thing about me."

That snared Castiel's attention more than the glinting barrel angling at his heart. His head canted to the side as his brow furrowed in perplexion, "You think you're a bad man."

Dean's lips thinned, and for a moment Castiel could see the emotional storm brewing in the man's eyes. The next moment it was gone, replaced with a cold indifference and a fake smile, "Hate to break it to you, but I'm no Saint."

Regardless, "I cannot in good conscious allow you to wander aimless through a storm."

With a frustrated noise, Dean eased the hammer back to a safe position and shoved the pistol back into its holster. "You are a frigg'n pain in my ass. God damn _quaker_."

Despite the outburst, Castiel couldn't help but smile. It was a crooked line across his face, but there none the less.

Dean noticed the expression, "Yeah, real cute Padre, just keep smiling 'cause you're making the fire. I ain't doing jack."

It didn't bother Castiel. In fact for a moment his lips quirked a touch wider. It had been a while since he had roughed it out on the open range. He welcomed the change. It felt right. Better than living behind a polished bar and watering the local men with their choice of swill. It was a trough for the dying, Castiel had decided, and he wasn't looking forward to returning to it. So he welcomed the task given to him, drawing a simple joy of making sure the horses were watered before gathering dried bits of brush and sage to erect a small fire.

As he went through the motions, Castiel was aware of Dean glowering at him while gnawing on a piece of jerky. But if he meant to say something to Castiel, Dean never found the right words, because before long the storm unfolded over them. The rain came down in a light shower. Dean had moved a short way from the struggling fire to put up a simple one-man tent made of canvas, the kind a man had to crawl to get into. The material billowed and shook with each gust, but from what little Castiel could see inside the a-frame setup, Dean looked peaceful enough bundled in his duster and hat.

Castiel remained outside, seated with his back to the dying embers and with his face turned up to the soft rain. As the storm revitalized the parched earth, Castiel imagined it revived him as well. Within seconds he was soaked through, but as each drop struck against his face he felt as if the last few years he'd spent withering were being washed away. He smiled into to the rain at the notion. It was silly, he knew. It reminded him of the church folk that went down to the river to for a baptism. Castiel didn't find anything wrong with the idea of being plunged into the water and believing it could cleanse a soul; to emerge as a man or woman born again.

Start anew; make things right.

It was just water, Castiel knew, but he had to wonder with enough faith if a damaged soul could healed.

If rain could really wash away his guilt.

The thunder cascaded over him, a gentle rumble of the heavens. Castiel chuckled, humoring himself with thinking it was an answer from God himself. He opened his eyes to let his gaze sweep across the dark clouds in amusement.

"The hell you laughing at?"

Castiel licked the rain from his lips before turning toward the tent. Dean had two fingers lifting his hat up far enough to peer out at Castiel. Chuckling again - because the idea of telling Dean he was laughing at God amused him - Castiel ran a hand over his face to wick away the rain. "Nothing."

"Whatever," Castiel could hear Dean shifting inside the tent. "Why are you sitting out in the rain anyway?"

Oh that.. "You didn't exactly give me time to gather necessary supplies."

Dean was responding, Castiel could tell by the tone it was something along the lines of patronizing, but he didn't pay it much heed. His attention was instead hinged on a flickering point of light in the distance. Orange, weak – a fire. Castiel once again felt his lips stretching into a faint smile. He knew which direction to go come morning. Dean would no doubt be angry that Castiel waited to tell him about the fire, but it was necessary. If Castiel told him now, the impulsive man would set out into the dark to find it.

"Cas, seriously, you're freaking me out. Just -" Dean hesitated before he growled the last of his words, "Just get in here."

And damn that Castiel remained frozen to the spot like a nervous jack rabbit.

Dean growl grew annoyed, "I'm not going to offer twice."

He didn't _scramble_, per say, but all the same Castiel didn't want to refuse the offer. The rain, while he had been comforting himself with silly thoughts of washing the dirt from his soul, it was still cold. He really had grabbed next to nothing when he left because Dean had already been on the move. So a bit of reprieve from the weather would be nice. He hesitated a few seconds near the entrance - enduring the disgruntled look Dean gave him while inching over to give Castiel room. It wasn't much. The tent really was not meant to be shared, but Castiel wouldn't complain about the confined quarters. It was better than the alternative of sitting through the whole storm.

Although it still left him a bit awed that Dean had even made the offer. Castiel had been the one worried about the other man's health, making him stop to eat and wait out the storm, and now Dean surprised him by offering him shelter from the rain despite an obvious reluctance. It was touching and just went to further on Castiel's thoughts of Dean being a good man.

It was more cramped than it looked, and no sooner had Castiel laid down did Dean start complaining. "Christ, you're soaked."

Castiel's brow lowered. The reason to his sodden state was obvious, but Dean's statement seemed to be waiting for some sort of explanation. "It's raining... "

Dean snorted, "Oh really, I hadn't noticed."

"It is... really."

The drier man turned just enough to give Castiel an odd look. "_Really?_"

"I would not lie about whether or not it is raining," These short exchanges always left Castiel feeling awkward. There were inflections in Dean's voice that he just didn't understand. It was only belatedly that Balthazar's voice echoed with a phrase that had become common between them: _Sarcasm, Cassy, I am being sarcastic._ Castiel grimaced. "You are being... sarcastic."

"Well aren't you the fastest draw in all of Kansas."

Castiel was certain Dean had never seen him draw - knew that because he had given his old belt and guns to Balthazar. He literally did not have a gun to draw. Yet, Castiel couldn't phantom what that had to do with the conversation. At least not until he reflected on the metaphorical shutters, and the more recent observation of the weather. With a frown (because Castiel wanted to argue that he was indeed a quick draw), Castiel plainly stated: "More sarcasm."

Dean muttered something under his breath before turning back on his side, presenting his back to Castiel. After a few moments, where Castiel stared up at the billowing canvas of the tent, he decided he was indeed as Dean had said - soaked. His fingers numbly worked at the buttons of his vest. He got half way through opening his shirt when Dean once again twisted around to see what all the squirming was about. Castiel's fingers stilled on the fifth button and he curiously looked at what little he could view of Dean's face in the dark.

"What are you doing?"

For a man that asked so many direct question, Castiel was learning that Dean did not like getting equally direct answers. "Removing my wet clothing."

"What!? No. _No_. Just - no - here." A small blanket was flung in his direction. "For the love of God, keep your clothes on."

"I don't think God–"

"_Shut up_, Cas."

For the record, Castiel didn't believe God cared whether or not he was clothed. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders before turning onto his side so that he and Dean were back to back in the small tent. The rain continued to fall and thunder sporatically rumbled to lightning in the distance. He smiled to himself, letting the storm lull him toward sleep, a single word passing through his mind before he drifted off.

_Beautiful._

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**Read? Curious? Review!**

_**A/N:**__ Castiel chapters always write quickly, but I couldn't write an entire story from his perspective. I use Dean because he is an action man. When I write him I don't find him pausing to ponder on the little things. Sam is somewhere in between action and introspect; a medium. Castiel, however, damn. He could have spent this whole chapter just reflecting on every color, smell, sight, or feeling he found amazing. He doesn't have a lot of forward momentum because he's the guy that could sit quietly in a room all night chasing each and every idle thought. It's cute in short doses, but would have been quite tiring in the long run. Yet I adore him so._

_Poor Castiel, he was really have a good time.._

_I don't normally name chapter titles after song lyrics, but this time it felt too fitting. Pandora supplied me with a song I found all too perfect for the mood of this chapter. 'Simple Man' - Shinedown. I also need to try and set up adobe and my tablet to draw an icon for this story. There is a different story that has popped up with a similar icon. Twitch, twitch._


	11. With Angel's Wings

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Supernatural or the characters. I'm a Pepsi kind of girl, but I drink Diet Coke.

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**Chapter Eleven: **With Angel's Wings

**By: **Zavijah

The storm passed before the first slivers of light crept over the horizon. The pre-dawn chill possessively clung to the earth, marking a few patches of grass with a thin frost that wouldn't last past sunrise. The creeping cold usually worked its way into Dean's toes and fingers, threatening to chill him to the very bone if he didn't get up and moving. However, this morning it wasn't the cold that woke him, it was the warmth.

Dean stirred with a faint groan. His skin was slick with sweat as if he'd been napping under the afternoon sun. It didn't take him long to realize why the small tent was several degrees too warm. The enlightenment dawned on him in the form of a warm, steady breaths wafting against the nape of his neck. _That_ gave him chills. Dean twisted his head around enough to peer through peripherals at Castiel's sleeping face practically nuzzled into his hair. There also was an arm slung low over his waist - _low_ being the keyword. Dean was afraid to actually look, but once he became aware of the contact, he could feel the fingers curled inward just above the hem of his pants. At least two fingers were touching against skin where his shirt had ridden up over the course of the night.

Castiel had cuddled up to him during the night.

It was understandable, the man had professed to once having a wife and nights spend outside did get cold. There were times when Dean had shared space with Sam to keep warm - that's what a bunkie was for. Yet him and his brother always slept back to back and Sam sure as hell didn't cozy up to him. Dean didn't make a habit out of sharing his space with people. Even if he had frequently rolled between sheets with countless women over the years, the hunter never stuck around long enough afterwards to _cuddle_.

He was _not_ a cuddler.

Dean, not knowing whether or not a rude wakening would spur Castiel to react violently, pushed an elbow back to kindly ease Castiel away. The bartender made a quiet noise of protested and squirmed closer. Dean could distinctly feel the tip of nose lightly trail up the back of his neck and into his hair. Then those fingers - those damn fingers - curled a bit more, scraping lightly across Dean's lower abdomen - which was just not good; not good _at all_. His breathe caught in his throat and as panic flared up Dean hastily grabbed the trespassing hand and shoved it, and Castiel, away. He was out of the tent in record time, leaving behind a waking Castiel to sluggishly blink at the vacated space.

His racing heart would not heed his demands to settle into nonchalance. Dean fixed his shirt, stuffing it in his pants before adjusting his belt and buckle. Noises from the tent let him know Castiel was still in the process of waking. The urge rose to snarl something unpleasant at the man - but what was the point when the guy was likely to say something weird in response and make Dean feel even more uncomfortable. Dean decided he would instead go for a walk, relieve his bladder, and simply patrol the outskirts of their make-shift camp in a show of searching for signs. He refused to return until he had settled his rattled mind back into place.

When Dean did wander back the sun had lifted from the horizon. A lethargic Castiel stood near the pile of ashes that had once been their meager fire until the rain had snuffed it. The bartender had stripped of the shirt and vest that had remained damp throughout the night. Dean chewed over the idea of offering one of his drier shirts tucked into his war bags, but the likely hood of him getting it back before they parted ways was slim at best. He had few enough articles of clothing that he didn't need to be giving hand-outs.

Dean's gaze absently skimmed along the back of Castiel's pale shoulders, catching on an odd scar. No, it couldn't be a scar, it was too defined in shape. What Dean had originally thought was a line of burn scars was a mirrored pattern that used the vertebrae of the protruding bone in the neck as a focal point. It spanned outward, curling toward the top of Castiel's shoulder blades, but it was all together too small for Dean to distinguish from a distance.

His gaze fell to the ground before curiosity got the better of him, "Is that a brand?"

Castiel spun to face him while reaching over his shoulder to touch at the slightly raised skin. The look on his face was apprehensive - or confusion, like he had forgotten the mark was even there. Dean wasn't all that surprised when Castiel slid back into the shirt without answering.

"Hey," Yet it still irked Dean to be ignored, especially when he asked more out of polite curiosity than any attempt to pry. "Would be easier if you just answered me."

A bit hypocritical for the bartender to get frustrated over Dean not answering questions when he did the same damn thing. Dean stalked over, ignoring the warning look narrowed on him. He reached out and pulled the collar of Castiel's shirt down much to the other man's displeasure. Castiel's jaw tightened but he didn't fight the rough treatment, just glared at a point on the horizon.

Closer now, Dean could better make out the artistic curves of what he would call wings seared into Castiel's flesh. Dean fingers wandered near the dark red scars. His mind flashed, remembering the way Castiel's fingertips had grazed across his lower abdomen that morning. It had burned, seared into his skin much like a brand and in such a way that Dean could still feel a phantom touch drawing across his skin. Dean's jaw clenched, agitated, and he dropped his hand away before he touched Castiel.

Castiel stepped away at the same time, snapping the collar of his shirt back up to block sight of the intricate scar. It was definitely a brand. Dean had heard of branding men for their crimes. Yet those types of brands were usually more visible. Dean stared transfixed at the cloth hindering his view. What spanned from the nape of Castiel's neck didn't look like a mark of shame. It was intriguing, enough that even though Dean could no longer see the scar, he stared at the back of Castiel's shoulders while attempting to make sense of it all.

His mind flickered with images. Again the small church with the narrow steeple. The bell was swinging and a prolonged _dong_ reverberated through his memory. It was ringing in his ears. Lips were moving, Castiel's lips, and there was that name again. _Lucifer_. Then there were wings opening, blocking the light shining in through the stained glass windows and throwing a shadow onto the floor that grew and grew. _Lucifer. _The ringing rattled his very thoughts.

"I saw a fire."

Dean jerked out of his thoughts to stare blankly at Castiel, "What?"

"A fire," Castiel repeated while finishing up his shirt buttons. "Last night."

Anger burned away Dean's previous line of thought, "And you didn't think this was important to tell me _last frigg'n night?_"

If he didn't think he needed Castiel to point the way, Dean would have socked him right there and left him in the dust. He had shared his damn tent with that bastard. Wait - wait, had Castiel seen the fire _before_ Dean had made his offer? He didn't want to know, because... because Dean had more important things to focus on - like finding Sam.

"I didn't want you to –"

"Yeah, I'm sure you just didn't want to lose out on your snuggle time."

Dean's words had the effect he was going for, because as soon as they passed his lips, Castiel looked as if he had been kicked in the gut. His lips had parted without words and under the dark hair and scruff the bartender paled. He was quick to re-construct his mask of indifference and advert his blue eyes.

Castiel was quiet the rest of the morning.

Dean put the matter out of mind and concentrated on packing up his gear and tying it to his saddle. A couple of times he caught himself stealing glances toward the bartender, but anything even remotely resembling an apology died in his throat. He swallowed it down, but the tension sat like a stone in his belly. It didn't abate despite how much he ignored it. Dean didn't know if it was good, or bad, that Castiel didn't even attempt to speak to him. The man just waited for Dean to finish packing before mounting and silently taking the lead.

After unsuccessfully trying to scan the land for clues, Dean once again found himself staring at the slope of Castiel's shoulders. Behind lips that were purposely being kept to a firm close, Dean gnashed his teeth. There was that feeling again, the one where he felt like he was losing his sanity. It was as if the sense of control he had developed over the years had become water and was now slipping between his fingers. His thoughts were everywhere and nowhere all at once and he was struggling to grasp at a single one. It was Sammy, he told himself. He always got a bit touched in the head when matters concerned his brother.

It didn't quite explain why his gaze continued to track back to the bartender, "Are they wings?"

Castiel's shoulders tensed, and for a moment his entire posture remained stiff until the stride of the horse forced him to relax, "I would rather not talk about it."

"Oh come on," Dean teased with the quirk of a smile edging upward. "What harm is it going to do to answer the question."

Silence greeted his persistence.

Dean snorted, "Really, can't you just say 'yes they are wings, Dean'"

"Yes they are wings, Dean."

"Hardy-har-har," Even though Dean attempted to glare at the stoic rider, the amusement crinkled at the corner of his eyes. It faded when it became clear that Castiel wasn't going to turn around to humor him with a look. The other man was more focus on the task of watching the land while Dean was dutifully following along. He didn't even have to guide his mare - she was use to traveling with another horse and naturally plodded along behind Castiel's horse.

Dean almost spurred his mount to side along his silent companion, but the urge died in his chest - sank down to join with the cold stone-like spot already settled there. The silence made it all that more uncomfortable. Dean decided, after a long moment of debate where he idly picked at the frayed leather of his reins, that Castiel confused him. Or, Dean confused himself in how he reacted to the man. Whatever it was, Dean wasn't fond of how it left him feeling like everything had been flipped upside down.

What he liked less was being left to his own idle thoughts.

"Mind picking up the pace?"

Only then did Castiel partially turn, tossing a blue-eyed look in Dean's direction. He studied Dean a quiet moment before shifting his attention back forward, speaking plainly, "You shouldn't be riding in your condition."

This time Dean did urge his mount forward so he was pacing alongside the stoic bartender. It was better than talking to the back of the man's head, "Is that your professional opinion, Doc?"

A disapproving look slid toward Dean at the nickname. Castiel must have sensed the incoming joke, because instead of responding with the 'I'm not a doctor' bit that Dean was counting on, he sighed, "I do not need to be a medical expert to know it would be best if you, as they say, take it easy."

"You sure you're–"

"I'm not a Quaker."

There was a moment of pause before Dean found himself lightly chuckling. Either Castiel was more perceptive than he let on, Dean was too predictable, or they were actually getting to know one another.

Again Castiel glanced at him, "Why does it bother you?"

"I didn't say it did."

"You speak of them in a condescending manner. It shows that you do not agree with their beliefs, that... you feel they are a joke." Castiel's head canted at this, an almost questioning lift on the last word as if uncertain of the phrasing. "They are merely pacifists who hold to the idea of living every day as a good person. There is nothing wrong with a man, or woman, being –"

"It's crap, it's all crap." He was getting a headache listening the brainwashed garbage spewing from Castiel's mouth. "There isn't good in this world. There's bad and then there is worse and everyone just mucks through the same shit in whatever way they can to get by. If it makes people feel better to imagine they're better than everyone else, whatever. I'm not buying into it."

Castiel was staring at him as they traveled, bobbing to the individual rhythm of their horses. Dean briefly met those troubled blue eyes, noticing the faint way Castiel shook his head in wonder, "How can you say there is no good in the world."

"The same way I would say there is no God."

Now Castiel just looked hurt, but whatever lame argument Castiel would no doubt try to present, Dean didn't have time for it. His gaze caught on movement beyond Castiel. He pulled short on his reins, bringing his mare to an abrupt halt. Castiel followed the motion a second later. Both riders spun their horses around to gaze at the far end of the dry wash. Now that their conversation had fallen silent, along with the cacophony of hooves, a voice could be heard yelling in attempt to get their attention.

_"Hey!"_

The tall man was waving his arms, and it didn't take Dean a second more to recognize him. "That's Sam."

A knot loosened in Dean's chest at the sight. He put heels to his mare's flanks and raced toward his brother. The loose pebbles that once made up the bottom of a creek scattered in his wake. He slowed when he was near enough to see Sam wasn't hurt. It was then he noticed the frantic flailing his brother was performing and tuned into what was being said.

"–in the damn salt ring!"

"Well gee Sammy, it's nice to see you too."

"Dean!" Angry motions were made with hands. "Get in the damn salt ring!"

The older hunter scowled, his expression pinching inward. "The hell Sammy, I'm not riding all the way back to town just to sit in a salt ring with wing-man."

For a moment the conversation ceased. Sam's head cocked to the side and his brows knitted in obvious confusion - then he was shaking his head to dismiss Dean's words. He reached down to retrieve the bag of salt, but froze with his fingers curled around the canvas sack and his eyes widened on the unknown. "Dean watch–"

Suddenly Baby was rearing with a high pitched scream. Her front legs slashed through the air and an unprepared Dean (who would like to think he was good at keeping his saddle) was thrown to the dirt. His shoulder screamed with the impact. Dean ignored it - he didn't have time for pain. Not when a ghostly visage of a young woman was reaching for him with fingers curved like talons. She might have reached him if not for his horse's front legs coming back down from the rear. By lucky chance Baby's feet cut right through the reaching ghost, the spirit screamed before temporarily dissipating.

Thank God for iron horse shoes.

Dean scrambled toward Sam, letting his brother grab his upper arm and haul him upright. When he looked down he noticed the salt ring. "Please tell me you know what's going on."

"It's not a banshee."

A scoff, "I could have told you that."

"Dean - please - can the attitude. I've been up all night trying to keep a salt ring in the rain and do you have any idea how long it took me to start that fire?"

"Shit–" He hadn't been the one to spot the said fire. "–Cas."

On the rise across the dry wash, Castiel was lightly trotting his horse to where Dean's mount had wandered after being spooked. He gathered up Baby's trailing reins, wrapping them once around his palm before drawing her back in the direction of the Winchester brothers. Dean made to leave the salt ring but Sam caught his arm, "Dean!"

The older hunter shot his brother a sharp look that should have communicated well enough that he did not like the idea of Castiel _and_ their horses standing out there like a baited trap. He'd never liked those scenarios and avoided them as much as possible.

"She – Bela, left something behind to keep me trapped here with that ghost."

"Great," Not only was the jewelry snitch familiar with the spirit world, she had a sick sense of humor where she preferred leaving a man trapped by a ghost rather than just shoot him dead. Although, on some level, Dean could be thankful that this woman was on the side of strange, otherwise Sam would have been very much dead. Dean may not be able to stop a speeding bullet (especially when he wasn't even present) but a ghost was something right up his alley. "You must have made one helluva an impression on her to deserve this."

"You're telling me - she made me trade my gun for the bag of salt."

Dean, finding the trade-off rather amusing, felt his lips twitch into a smirk. An expression he quickly expelled when Sam started to glare. Right, not funny. Nope. Dean lightly bit on his lower lip. Ah, hell – "You throw in your horse just to seal the deal?"

Sam glowered with thinly veiled annoyance, then his cheeks were coloring in an embarrassment that refused to be suppressed, "No, she took it."

"Man, I can't believe you let some chick steal your horse."

"I didn't _let_ her."

Dean chuckled. Despite the fact they were in the middle of nowhere, standing in a salt ring, and more or less trapped there by a vengeful spirit, it felt normal. It was a welcomed moment of reprieve after the awkwardness he felt around Castiel. Dean savored the moment of what he classified as normalcy before he raised an arm to hail Castiel – but it was too late. The ghost had returned.

Unlike Dean, Castiel managed to keep his saddle as his own horse spooked. He even kept a grip on Baby's reins as the two horses whirled. As impressed as Dean was, even if it stabbed a bit at his own pride, Dean had to do something before the guy got ghost-ganked - although the horses were doing well to shy away from the lurching spirit. Dean shoved his hands into the bag of salt Sam held, "Find the damn thing that's anchoring the bitch here."

He sprinted toward Castiel.

One well aimed throw of loose salt got rid of the ghost, although as Dean reached for the bridle of Castiel's horse, he nearly got kicked in the head by the man's startled reaction. Dean might have snapped - wanted to - but knew the ghost would soon return so he needed to use his time at least a _little_ more wisely. "Cas, you've gotta take the horses and get out of here. Stay in sight, but don't–"

The rest of his words transformed into a pained scream that cut short by teeth gritting so tightly Dean thought he felt a tooth crack. He twisted his head around to see the ghost behind him, her hands deeply plunged in his lower chest. She stared at him with eyes as white as milk. Her grin, while missing teeth, was no less delighted as she squeezed the air from his lungs. Dean's vision wavered and it took a great effort to torque and throw the other handful of salt at the spirit. The pressure in his chest disappeared and Dean sucked in a gasping breathe. He might have made friends with the dirt for a second time in the span of five minutes if not for dismounted Castiel catching him by the arm.

Dean glared at the man even as gripped back. "Didn't I tell you to get lost."

Castiel spared him a crooked, apprehensive smile. Dean grumbled under his breath as he hauled the smaller man toward the salt ring, shoving him in past the white line. "If you value your life, stay put."

Dean exchanged Castiel's arm for the bag of salt and went to help his brother with the search. The next few moments were a blur as both hunters moved on adrenaline fueled instinct. Sam got pelted in the face a couple of times when Dean threw salt. It might have been funny if not for the occasional grunt of pain as the ghost whittled away their strength one frigid, ethereal touch at a time. All was going as smoothly as getting their asses kicked by a ghost as they fumbled around for a mystery trinket could go.

The world fell from under Dean's feet. Vertigo stuck him a moment before his side impacted with a boulder. He lost grip on the bag of salt. Couldn't see where it went, but the slight taste of salt on his lips said he spilled it all over the damn place. The metallic tang of blood replaced the salt and a burning began in Dean's chest as he began to realize he hadn't been able to breathe for the last few seconds.

The sky was a crisp blue above him; the rocks and dirt grasped between his fingers rough. These were sensations he desperately held onto while he struggled to inhale. The pain was fading and that alone alarmed Dean. Pain was life, as long as he could still feel pain, he knew he wasn't dying.

God damnit, this wasn't a way he wanted to go, it was just a stupid _ghost_.

Then there was a warm palm pressed against his cheek, and the blue of the sky was replaced with the darker storm-like shade of Castiel's eyes. Dean cursed - mentally, as he was unable to breathe properly, let alone speak. This bartender didn't listen worth a damn; out here being all _concerned_. All the same, Dean found the simple touch - the gentle contact and warmth against his jaw line - comforting. Those eyes, too, those sapphire orbs that stared through the cracks in Dean's defenses and silently read over the pain and vulnerability hidden behind the mask; a look that said everything would be alright, that there was still good in this world.

Dean felt a tug at his waist and he quickly slapped a hand over his holster, but Castiel had already taken the gun and with a final look at Dean — _He's not afraid. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he's not afraid_ — Castiel moved came to Dean in short, sharp inhales. It hurt - _pain is good_ - he must have broken a rib.

A shot rang out.

A second.

Lead bullets manually tipped with iron - it would do the job to make the ghost temporarily dissipate but christ those bullets were limited in number. Dean rolled onto his side with a wince, then pushed himself onto his knees. ("Got a match?"). He planted one foot on the ground as he wrapped an arm around his ribs. ("Toss me the gun!") Reaching a hand under the thickness of his duster, Dean ran his fingers along the side of his ribs until a blossom of pain bloomed when one moved under the firm palpation. ("Burn it.")

Dean lurched to his feet and stumbled toward the voices. His eyes widened as the ghost loomed before him. He passed through her - his heart stopping in his chest - as she passed through him. Warmth brushed at his cheeks and when Dean pivoted around there were burning ashes falling in his wake. Dean completed his little spin to blink at his brother and tag-a-long. Sam was holding the gun (Clever Sam, disarming a stranger in such a subtle manner. Sammy was always the thinker.) while Castiel was dropping the burning remains of who-knows-what. "Well," both sets of eyes swung to him and Dean felt it necessary to put forth a cocky smile. "That was easy."

He felt like he was going to hurl.

Sam was rolling his eyes, and Castiel was giving him that concerned stare, both looks of which Dean ignored as he went to fetch his horse. He didn't need either of those two noticing the pain flickering across his face. Dean held his hand out to his horse and tried to beckon her closer, "Baby, I'm so glad you're okay." She was a special horse - but only because she had survived the longest out of any of the horses he had owned over the years. It was sad, but most often their horses accidentally filled the role of meat shield when it came to monster hunting.

"So,"

That was Sam, walking toward him with Castiel lagging behind a few paces.

"We've got a serious problem on our hands."

Dean smirked as he gathered his horse's reins, "Other than my brother got beat by a woman?"

"I mean this Bela has all my stuff, plus God knows what else, and she has no qualms with using her knowledge of the supernatural against people to get what she wants." Sam gathered the reins of the second horse.

While his brother was occupied, Dean struggled to step up into his saddle. He bit on his lip to stifle the groan of pain. Yeah, he hid his injury because now wasn't the time to worry about it, because whether Sam liked it or not, they still had to ride back into town. "I guess you have a point - know which way she went?"

"Yeah, but from what little I've seen of her - she's smart Dean. I wouldn't put it past her to have switched back and gone elsewhere to throw off any pursuers."

"Maybe that guy Belshazzar–"

"Balthazar," That wasn't Sam's voice correcting him.

Both Dean and Sam paused from where they were seated in the saddle. In unison they turned to peer down at the eerily calm bartender. Dean realized one thing almost at once: three riders, only two horses. "Hey uh, Sam, Cas needs to ride with you."

Unsurprisingly, Sam instantly protested. "Why do I have to do it?"

"Because I've already spent enough quality time with him, it's your turn."

"I thought him being a bartender made you two as good as drinking buddies."

"Well I ain't drinking right now, am I."

"If it's that much trouble," Castiel's low, scratching voice broke in between their squabble. "I can walk."

"Oh shut it you damn martyr, you're not walking." Dean growled, angry because the damn Quaker made him feel guilty about the whole situation. To Sam he muttered, "Come on Sam, you can ride with me."

"Dean, I'm not seven anymore. Forget it."

The older hunter bristled. Exhausted, hungry, and feeling dizzy from the pain, Dean wanted his brother to be a little less insolent. Sadly, it was something of a family trait - as was stubbornness. Dean didn't want to submit until he had put up as much as a fight as possible. In the interest of saving time, Dean decided to settle this fairly. He stuck out his palm, his other hand fisted onto it in an invite to a round of Roshambo.

Rock-paper-scissors.

Sam mirrored him, and after three pats of fists to palms, they chose their best weapon. Dean went with scissors and was already letting out a frustrated growl when he saw Sam had chosen rock. "Best two out of three?"

"Don't be such a sore loser," Sam teased as he urged his horse to take the lead toward town.

"You should be more thankful I bothered to come to save your ass!"

No amount of yelling would change the outcome, but it felt nice to vent some of the frustration. At least Sam was ahead of him and wouldn't see the mild flush to Dean's features as he moved Baby over to Castiel and offered the man an arm up. A mistake, as the strain on his ribs made him hunch forward afterwards as he fought to keep his breathing even. His previous flush drained from his features, but as with all things, Dean ignored it. He pushed a hand against the horn of saddle to force himself upright. He glanced back at Castiel, "You good?"

The bartender gave a shallow nod, then before Dean could read the motion, Castiel had reached forward to press a hand against the side of Dean's ribs. Almost a motion to hold on, but the knowing look on Castiel's face said otherwise. Broken ribs. Dean grabbed the offending hand with his own and pulled it aside to relieve the sickening pressure. "Unless you got a flask of whiskey with you, I'm not interested in hearing the prognosis, Doc."

Castiel frowned, but thankfully said nothing and as they rode back toward town Dean noted that Castiel was careful to only grab at his waist for grip when necessary instead of a shoulder or elsewhere that might jar Dean's ribs. Dean had never been much of a physically affectionate person, but he had to admit that the distraction of the small touches of Castiel's hands on his side, or the brush of a leg against his own, kept him from focusing entirely on the pain burning a hole in his side.

Mostly.

Dean lasted as long as he could, he really did, but by the time they had neared town he was only in the saddle by the good graces of Castiel's arms. The bartender had the reins and Dean kept a white-knuckled grip on the saddle horn with a determination to not lean too far one way or the other that might make him lose his seat. He blearily stared at the approaching horizon, not sure if the pain had made him delusional, because he was certain he saw a plume of thick smoke rising above the peaked roofs of town.

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_**A/N: **__I seem to always find it difficult to switch back to Dean's perspective after a Castiel chapter. They filter the world around them very differently (in my writing world). Where Castiel would feel and acknowledge the sense of relief at finally having someone look at him when they talk.. Dean only does the 'at least it was better than talking to the back of the guy's head' spiel. It's still expressing the same reaction. Dean also seems to refuse to dwell on things that make him feel uncomfortable. He seems to shut it down and move onto things he better understands. It may be a bad habit, but I like writing the chapter with the essence of the character in the style._

_Don't ask how Dean feels, because he's a man and a man doesn't talk about his feelings._

_I've committed a crime. Halfway through this chapter I had to stop and write a completely different chapter to a different story just because the idea wouldn't get out of my head._


	12. From the Ashes

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural or the characters.

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**Chapter Twelve: **From the Ashes

**By: **Zavijah

Sam wasn't fooled.

At least not about the fact that Dean was hurt. He just hadn't realized the extent of the wounds. There was rarely a day that went by where Dean _wasn't_ hurt, so of course Sam knew his brother was going to be sporting a few bumps and bruises. There world just wasn't completely without Dean being in some sort of pain. Yet when Sam happened to glance back and noticed how pale Dean looked, and the fact that the bartender – Castiel? – had an arm wrapped around his older brother to even keep him in the saddle spoke volumes of how poorly Sam had judged the situation. All he had wanted was for Dean to suffer a bit by being forced to share a horse. It should have served Dean right for being stubborn and trying to keep his injuries a secret.

Sam circled his horse around to side along Castiel. Part of him wanted to reach out and pull his brother onto his own horse. As much as he hated to admit it, he didn't like trusting a stranger anymore than Dean. Sam hid it better, but when it came to family the truth was that neither of the Winchester boys took kindly to outsiders. It didn't help that Sam was starting to pick up on the vibe that had probably disturbed his brother. Sam's first impression had been to think the bartender was just an awkward man, but after seeing how he behaved outside the realm of normalcy, Sam's distrust began to nag at his fore thoughts.

See, the young Winchester had been around long enough to know that people did not react well to the supernatural. They screamed, ran, stammered, and generally fumbled about as if they'd had two left feet. They showed _fear_ and most often filled the role of sitting duck. What they didn't do was keep it together under such a stoic mask. There hadn't been so much as a tremble in Castiel's hands as the man jumped to action against a ghost.

Sam could only rationalize that this wasn't Castiel's first spirit rodeo.

Was he a hunter? – Why hadn't he told them?

Even now, as Sam paced alongside the bartender, Castiel returned his gaze with an impressive amount of callousness. It made Sam glad that he had taken the gun from the man. "You really kept your head back there."

"It looked like you needed the help."

So plain, so void of emotion - Sam couldn't tell if it was a humble response, or a clever insult. It rendered Sam into a puzzled speechlessness for a moments that stretch on in eternity as Sam's mind whirled with activity; before him was a puzzle in need of solving but none of the pieces fit. The incomplete picture bothered Sam. "Thanks for that."

Castiel merely inclined his chin in acknowledgement. It made Sam feel minuscule; picked at his pride the same way Balthazar's flippant behavior had done. Sam nudged his horse closer, reaching out to lay a hand on his brother's arm. "I can take him."

"He is not a burden–"

_He's MY burden_

"-and it is not necessary to move him. Time spent altering his position would be better spent getting him to the doctor. Besides, I highly doubt Dean would take well to me riding his horse."

The last segment struck Sam as a poorly executed joke. He flashed a quick, awkward smile that he hoped would pass for genuine. He extracted his touch and looked towards town, they were closer now and sure enough the pillar of gray smoke they had seen at a distance had become more distinct. One plume became two, three, each writhing angrily from a fire recently snuffed. In the street at least half the town had gathered to watch in a mix of fascination and horror as only a handful of men battled the fire that had shelled out the local saloon. The sign jutting out from the eave still hung - Raven's Roost. A smoke hazed gust made the metal hinge screech as it swung.

Sam took it in at a glance before dismounting and moving to help lower Dean from the other horse. His brother woke during the process and gripped strongly at Sam's shoulders for support. He cussed, as was appropriate for the situation, and Sam paid it no mind like he always did. Before Sam could as so much thank Castiel for the help, the bartender had left. The last Sam saw of Castiel was the back of the man's white shirt as he waded through the sea of on lookers to plunge into the charred remains of the saloon.

Sam might have felt more sympathetic if not for Dean's sagging weight in his arms.

He slung one of Dean's arms over his shoulder, gathered the reins of both horses, and half-carried his brother off to the doctor's residence that doubled as his place of practice. Sam met the doctor on the way in, grateful when the man shouldered the other arm and helped carry Dean's dead weight.

"He get caught up in that ruckus too?"

"No, he uh.. fell off his horse." Sam imagined Dean would have looked a mix of annoyed and embarrassed if had he been more conscious. "Fell on a patch of rocks. I just got back to town with him, what happened here?"

"I don't rightly know to be completely honest," The doctor worked Dean out of his coat and boots before working on shirt buttons. "Had some out of towners ride through, their like always stop for a drop or two of red eye before heading back out. I can only reckon they had a misunderstanding with one of the Roost's fixtures and it got carried away."

The skin around Dean's ribs was heavily splotched with bruises of mingling reds, blues and a dominating purple hue. Sam watched as the doctor sat on the edge of the bed and began pressing the end of a stethoscope around the wounded area. "It's only expected I suppose. We haven't see much hardship here in Willow's Creek for some time now. You might say we were overdue for our fair share."

After a quiet moment the stethoscope was folded away, "Your friend is lucky. His lungs are clear. I'll bind up the ribs that appear to be fractured and advise him a couple days bed rest."

Great, Sam thought sarcastically, Dean was going to love being told he should stay in bed. Sam wasn't exactly thrilled either. He was concerned for his brother's health, sure, but ever since they stepped into town things had been going from bad to worse. The sooner they left, the better. Sam nodded to the doctor before politely ducking out of the room. There were a few things Sam needed to get ready before Dean inevitably ignored Doctor's orders and staged an escape that involved riding away with the wind with bandages trailing in his wake.

His first task was to find Balthazar. Which, as everything else that week, did not go well. Sam knocked on the door he found left slightly ajar, even called out a few times, but there was no response. Inside, because Sam was never shy to step inside a stranger's house, Sam found the once immaculate rooms in a state of disarray. Either someone had left in a hurry, or someone else had come along to search for something. Regardless, Balthazar was not there.

Sam decided to swing by the saloon on his way back and see if anything could be scavenged from their room. He stepped over the swing sign on the way inside - past the single batwing door still hinged to the framing post. The top portion of the saloon had collapsed in on itself although at least half the stairwell still stood, leading to nowhere. The bar was still intact, if blackened to a crisp, and one of the stools managed to look almost untouched by the fire. Sam carefully negotiated his way toward the direction of his room when he came to a dead stop. Ahead of him was one of the supporting beams, black and glossed to glint like obsidian after the fire - and tied to it was the remains of a person. Whatever ropes had been used were gone in the fire, but the person had, for a lack of a better word, _melted _into the thick post. The body itself was too badly burnt for Sam to even determine it was a man or woman from a glance. Whoever it had been, had been there before the fire started. Sam took a step back, this time taking notice of the shapes of three other fallen shapes mostly buried under the debris.

Movement from his right caused Sam to start. His pistol was already half-drawn by the time he registered the figure sitting at one of the surviving card tables. The late bartender. In one hand twirled a feather - sleek and a gossamer black that served as an odd reminder of the name of the establishment. In the other hand Castiel was nursing a bottle of some expensive looking whiskey. Why not, right? The guy's whole livelihood had just burnt to the ground, so why not break out the good stuff? Castiel stared at the rubble beneath his feet, seemingly unaware of Sam's presence.

Sam felt like he was intruding on the man's private moment. It was an awkward sort of tension that made the side of his neck require a quick scratch. He should of been more horrified. There were times in Sam's life where he acknowledge that he had lost an element of his humanity somewhere in the past years. It wasn't a terribly missed part of himself, but as Sam let his gaze examine the burnt body, he wondered when he had become so jaded toward death. Perhaps the worst thing was that he still pretended to compassionate, "Did they say what happened?"

Castiel's eyes slowly focused and drew up Sam's tall frame to meet his gaze, "It burned down."

Obviously - but did the man not understand the depth of the question, or was it an intentional dodging? It looked personal - from the person bound to the stake to the mocking feather pinched between Castiel's fingers. "What of the men responsible?"

"Gone."

Perhaps it was shock that kept Castiel's answers so hollow, Sam reasoned. "I went to talk to Balthazar, but it looks like someone broke into his place, or he left in a hurry."

The bottle tapped against the table. A gentle rapping that repeated itself as Castiel stared off into the shambled corner of the saloon. It was an absent motion of inner thought and Sam, disinterested in the ashen pit before him, found himself curious what links Castiel's mind was forging with the new piece of information. Or hell, what the man was thinking at all because sitting in the middle of a hulled out saloon, drinking while there were remains of people still in the mess was a _bit_ strange.

Sam began to pick his way toward the far corner, "Did you know them?"

"Not sure.. " Castiel's gaze dipped to the feather. "Yet."

It took a few moments, but Sam managed to move enough of the charred boards to find what little remained of his and Dean's room. Sam was happy that he had at least packed their Dad's journal in his saddle bag the day pervious, but he had left a couple of books behind which were now ruined. Bobby was going to be irate - if he asked about it. Sam would keep his lip buttoned on the subject unless asked directly. What little clothing had been left in the room was non-existent. The ammunition spent. The rifle Dean had been cleaning a day ago was once again looking worse for wear. Sam grabbed it anyway.

"You have somewhere to go?" Sam asked as he climbed back over the ruins. He wanted to feel sympathetic, he did, because he saw how his brother behaved and it was just a kick in the teeth to think that after all the years of hunting down monsters in order to save people, they had lost the ability to connect with those very same people. Sam didn't want to become bitter.

Castiel shook his head.

A glance at the charred space behind the bar, Sam guessed that it was true enough. The guy have lived there, made a living there, and in the span of an hour had lost it all. Once again Sam scratched at the back of his neck. It may as well have happened because Sam and Dean had been staying there, because there were _things_ that didn't much like them and would do anything to have their heads on a platter.

"Will you and your brother pursue Bela?"

"Eventually," Sam shrugged. "She seems the type that knows how to disappear, so there's no point in chasing her until we have a fresh trail. We'll probably head to Abilene, we have a friend there that could help out."

"Abilene... " Castiel's head tilted with thought. "That's near Dodge City, isn't it?"

Sam hesitated, but slowly dipped his chin in a nod. "About a day's ride, yeah. There's a rail station there if need. Do you have family in Dodge.. ?"

For the first time Sam saw Castiel smile. It was not a kind expression. "Something like that, yes."

"If you want to ride with us to at least Abilene," The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself, "It's the least we can do, since you helped us out."

A thoughtfulness crossed Castiel's expression. Sam was torn on the outcome he wanted to hear. First, it was odd traveling with anyone aside from his brother. Like a boulder breaching the surface of a river, presence alone disrupted the ebb and flow that had formed between himself and Dean. It was nothing personal against Castiel, but it did make things a little awkward. On the other hand, Castiel was something of an enigma and Sam's curiosity knew no bounds. It was a week's worth of riding and since Dean needed time to mend, Sam could use the extra pair of hands, and guns, if they ran into trouble.

"I will think on it," Castiel finally decided with a faint nod, "Thank you."

"Dean will want to be moving before sunset tomorrow."

The bartender rolled his eyes – and because of that Sam smirked, deciding that he could learn to get along with Castiel. "Your brother should rest."

Sam shrugged, "It's my brother, believe me when I tell you he doesn't know how to relax unless it involves a pint of whiskey or the company of a woman."

"Tomorrow then... Sam," Castiel sounded like he had difficulty saying his name, and the way he held eye contact made Sam nod to give the other man permission. Castiel mirrored the action before letting his gaze wander to the blackened bodies. His expression sobered, "I need to see to the dead."

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_**A/N: **__Another filler chapter, forgive me. Originally I was going to write it from Castiel's perspective, but I figured that it would be too revealing. Enter Sam, the middle man. Don't worry, soon all be exposed and I will be able to stop tip-toeing around the truth. The next chapter should be entertaining. It's part time skip, part fluff, part long, part living up to my destiel tag. So Rei, my brave friend, you may want to abandon all hope here, your support had been greatly appreciated!_

_I have shy readers._

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**Review?**


	13. When Stars Collide

**Chapter Thirteen: **When Stars Collide

**By: **Zavijah

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_It started simple.._

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A translucent drape of azure pushed over the horizon as the morning woke. It was the third sunrise since leaving Willow's Bend, and the second since they set up camp in a sheltered depression with a creek within walking distance. Dean hadn't wanted to stay stationary and he was damn certain that Sam and Castiel were working together to delay their progress. They should have been half way to Abilene, instead Dean was getting the run around. He understood right and well that they were concerned for his well being, and Dean could admit that riding with fractured ribs was far from pleasant, but he didn't like to be mollycoddled over like a toddler.

Unless it involved pie, but since neither Sam nor Castiel had procured said baked goodness, Dean remained an unruly patient.

The morning found Dean glowering at Castiel from over the coffee percolating over the small fire. Sam was working on scrounging what little they had to make breakfast, and Castiel was crouched over near the tents. The former bartender had propped a small mirror in the dry brush and was using it as a reference as he carefully drew a sharp blade along his jaw to sheer away the dark stubble. Each careful stroke revealed a fresh face belonging to a younger man. Dean didn't think it matched the age often revealed in Castiel's weighted gaze. Those sapphire blue eyes were often a storm, a massive thunderhead looming in the distant. Powerful, patient, and a man that looked upon the patient storm should know that when it hit, it would hit hard and without mercy.

Dean decided, offhandedly, that he preferred Castiel with the dark, five o'clock shadow; a day or two worth of stubble to better define the man's jaw line. Castiel caught Dean's stare and glance over. The hunter immediately adverted his gaze and directed a growl toward Sam, "What's taking so damn long? I'm starving."

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_..in subtle tones.._

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"Where the hell is Cas?"

It was passing midday and Dean restlessly paced the campsite with long, angry strides. He'd already made a trip to the creek with the excuse of wanting to wash the morning's dishes; had taken a long walk around the area feigning to search for signs of game while really his gaze had constantly swept the horizon for sign of Castiel.

"Uhm.. " Sam pushed the brim of his hat back, feigning a concerned countenance as he halfheartedly glanced around them. "Not sure."

"He didn't say anything to you?"

Sam scoffed, "He's not our prisoner, Dean."

"Yeah, well, what if something happened to him while he was out there and we had no idea where to even look?"

A flush began to creep up the sides of Dean's neck when he registered the growing amusement on Sam's face. He didn't see what was so god damn funny about the situation. He was pretty damn pissed off that Castiel just took off on them without giving them a heads up on the situation. Dean's chin lifted with a guarded expression, "What?"

"It's nothing, just.. "

"Just _what_, Sam."

Again Sam chuckled, "I was just wondering if this is how you act when I'm not around. You've always kind of been over the top about the whole big brother thing."

"He's not my _brother_–"

"Exactly," Sam cut in before Dean could gain momentum. "He isn't your brother."

Dean's lips moved over unformed words and thoughts that were skipping along the surface but never settling. If Sam was trying to make a point, the worst thing he could do was be obscure about it. The pronounced confusion must been painful to watch, because after a moment Sam sighed before elaborating.

"Don't freak out–"

"Why would I freak out?"

"– but I've never seen you care about –"

"I don't friggin' _care_ for the guy, Sam."

"You're right," Sam pushed his hat back down over his eyes with an exasperated sigh, "You're just pacing like a nervous mother because you hate the guy."

"I'm pacing because I'm _bored_," Dean declared vehemently before stalking off toward the creek. At the water he kicked off his boots, rolled up his pant legs and literally set his bare feet in the water to cool his heels. As the creek ebbed away the anger that ran white hot through his nerves, the thoughts and feelings that had been there - before the aggression had flooded his system - quietly breached the surface.

He cared - enough to be worried about the idiot for wandering out of his sight without first giving notice.

Dean didn't bother asking himself why, as he was not ready to delve down that unbeaten path in his mind, he instead wondered when it had first started and without him taking notice. From the very start Dean had been coarse with Castiel. He had made every interaction between them abrasive to avoid any chance of form of kinship. Yet through it all Castiel had weathered the treatment with the patience of a damn Saint. He had forgiven the transgressions committed against him; had seen through it all; had stared Dean right in the eye and said Dean was a _good_ man.

It was hard to hate someone that believed in him.

At the same time Dean didn't like anyone putting faith in him, because in the end he'd let them down. He'd let them all down. Dean also didn't want to care for someone, to develop that attachment. The people he cared for had the habit of dying, or worse, betraying him. He barely knew Castiel, but Dean knew this arrangement of traveling together was temporary. Castiel would leave and Dean would lose what little of a friendship he had developed with the man. In the end, only Sam stuck around.

It was terrifying enough to think that one day Sam would leave him.

Dean threaded fingers through his honey colored hair and gripped at the short, soft strands. These idle moments of thought, while bringing a degree of clarity, were unwelcome. Dean would rather be riding and putting thought and endless country behind him. He wanted a monster to hunt. Anything to occupy his time and mind so he didn't find himself in these quiet moments, looking back over the roads he had traveled so far and reflecting on how he had arrived to the present.

He didn't like what he saw in his past.

Liked it less when he realized all this time he had been trying to outrun his own shadow.

* * *

_..masked with animosity.._

* * *

"Where the hell have you been!?"

Castiel drew his mare short at the sight of Dean stalking toward him. The hostility was nearly palpable, rolling off Dean in waves and thickening the air with a weighted silence and burning green eyes. Castiel ignore the tension, casually dismounting and with a hand still curled in the reins he turned his back to Dean in order to rummage through his saddle bags.

"I'm serious Cas, you better start talking or I'm going to start swinging, because I don't-" A pause as Dean focused on Castiel's busy hands. "-what the hell is that?"

Castiel held the small, glass jar up to better bring light to the thick, amber liquid oozing from the bit of honeycomb wrapped in a piece of cloth that was screwed in with the lid to keep the comb pressed against the lid. Proudly Castiel held it out toward Dean, smiling all the while, "Honey."

The hunter's brows drew together in obvious confusion as he accepted the offer jar, "Are you telling me you rode all the way to some town to buy _honey_."

"No," That would have been absurd. "I gathered it myself."

Apparently riding to town was the more acceptable answer because Dean was suddenly looking at him as if he had just admitted to saddle-breaking a buffalo. Castiel figured that Dean just didn't know how honey was collected, so he nervously launched into an explanation. "I was hoping to chance on some pheasant hens when I noticed a hive in the crook of a tree–"

"And you thought it was a good idea to bust open a hive?"

Castiel adverted his gaze out of embarrassment, but even taking his eyes off the intensity of Dean's judgmental expression did not abate the color that burned at the tip of his ears. He smiled again, wider and more nervous, "I was once regaled with a tale of how to gather fresh honey and when I saw the hive I... it was just something I really wanted to try. I've always been too... afraid to try anything like that."

It was nice, for once, to put his mind into a state of calm and concentrate on doing something that made him feel _alive_. He had spent so much of his life in pain, hiding from the world, and - simply put - afraid to live. There were so many things he had taken for granted, regretted, and Castiel wanted to put a stop that the vicious cycle in his life. The attempt to change was new to him. Castiel didn't quite know how to change the monotony that had become his norm.

Testing how well he braved against a swarm of bees was something of an awkward start.

"You realize there is a reason why people don't do this, right?"

Castiel's smile began to wane, "I gathered sage grass to burn, the smoke makes them less aggressive. From there it was a matter of remaining calm, moving slowly, and cutting off a chunk. It's not as dangerous as you might think."

"Are you insane?"

Dean looked upset and Castiel couldn't phantom a reason why. The confusion shifted to hurt as the small jar was thrust back into his hands. Castiel nearly dropped it but managed to get startled fingers around the glass before it could tumble out of his grasp to shatter his hard work over the ground between them. Dean stormed off without another world. Castiel battled with his feelings, trying not to let the hunter's brash behavior get to him, and after a quiet moment where a frown fully formed, Castiel lead his horse to water and left her there to drink.

Sam greeted him when he neared the camp fire. There was a smile as the tall man approached him with casual strides and an air of friendless. The two brothers were direct opposites most of the time, Castiel saw it as a balancing - because all the world worked to balance itself. Sam's brows reached into his hairline when he noticed the jar, "Is that honey?"

Castiel couldn't help but smile, lightly nod, then hold the jar out for Sam to curiously examine. "Your interest is refreshing after your brother's disdain."

A chuckle from Sam further eased Castiel's mind, "Yeah, don't take it personal, Dean had been working up a stitch since this morning."

"Is there something wrong?"

"Nah, he was just –" Sam suddenly became tight lipped. Castiel questioningly canted his head to one side, hoping to provoke an answer from the younger brother. "He's just uhm... feeling restless. I told you before he doesn't do well when forced to stay put."

Castiel had a feeling that there was something Sam wasn't saying, but let it go. He had no reason to distrust the man, "He seems to have very little self-regard when it comes to his health."

"Tell me about it, that's been a problem since we were kids."

"He–"

"Cas," Sam interrupted with an amused smile. "Don't actually tell me about it, that was just a turn of phrase."

"Of course," Castiel feigned a similar smile, nodding his head as if he had known that all along. In actuality he had intended to comment on Dean's reluctance to open himself up to the world. While the man didn't care either way about his own health, at the same time he was scared - not of something so inevitable as death, but to live. He was scared to get hurt, but not in the physical sense. Castiel saw a man closed off, much like himself, and honed by a past of regrets, pain, and not enough good memories to balance it out. The memories and experience existed, but had all become shadowed by the bad ones.

"You'll have to show me how you did this someday," Sam was saying as he handed back the honey. Castiel nodded as was considered polite, because considering they would part ways in a couple days, he doubted Sam meant those words. At least the thought was a kind one. "I almost tried once when I was eleven, Dean was livid."

Another smile flitted across Castiel's features, he liked hearing about the Winchesters' past. The brotherly bond between Sam and Dean was something that made him envious. Shamed as he was to admit such a truth, Castiel wouldn't deny it. It was nice to see family loyalty. There were too few loyal men in the world these days.

Castiel lowered his gaze to the glass jar as Sam excused himself.

He wanted to show Dean that living was something worth experiencing.

* * *

_..there was a moment.._

* * *

Dean looked up from where he had been stroking the coals, prepping the fire to last the long, cold hours of the night. He saw Sam's face flicking in the orange light but not Castiel's. Dean retreated from the firelight, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness and made a round through their small camp. Castiel's bed roll laid empty much to Dean's chagrin. He gave Castiel the benefit of the doubt, creating the excuse that the man had just gone to relieve himself.

Time passed, Sam retired, and Dean continued to sit by the low flames and staring out into the darkness.

Finally, unable to sit on his hands any longer, Dean holstered his sidearm and wandered into the night. He had no direction in mind, but even the simple act of walking helped put his mind at ease. His boots lead him on the familiar path toward the creek. Crickets chorused him with warbling chirps, falling into a silence when he wandered too close. The sound of the flowing creek drowned it all out and for a long moment Dean stood at the water's edge, his shoulders weighed with disappointment.

He kicked a few pebbles into the shallows solely to hear the soft plops.

"Dean?"

A knot of tension loosened in Dean's chest as he spun to face the direction of the voice, "Cas?"

"What are you doing here?"

Dean fixated on the voice and carefully began to pick his way up the creek bank, ducking around a willow to pass into a stretch of field grass. Moonlight bathed the area in muted shades of blue, the details lost to the shadows. The wind caressed the grass, making it dance like the waves of water around the figure sitting among the tall stalks. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Looking at the stars," So simple, as if everyone gathered wild honey from hives; naturally that sort of person would be absent from camp to star gaze. Mostly Dean was upset that he'd been worried over nothing - _again_. Castiel watched Dean for a moment that was quiet save for the few crickets brave enough to interrupt, after a moment his gaze fell and his fingers busied themselves with plucking at the nearest grass stalk. "Are you going to answer the question?"

"I... " Dean shook his head before wading through the sea of grass. "It doesn't matter."

Castiel accepted the answer even if Dean suspected the man wasn't satisfied with it. It was only when those watchful eyes fell to the piece of grass being broken between fingertips did Dean feel comfortable enough to sit down. When Castiel glanced questioningly at him, Dean mere snorted and turned his own gaze toward the heavens.

"You don't have to stay here... " Castiel reluctantly began.

Dean grunted, "You watch the stars and I'll watch you, because in case you've forgotten, I still don't trust you."

An amused sound from Castiel drew Dean's sideways glance, catching the faint smile on the other man's face. Dean mirrored the expression as his stomach started to flutter nervously. It faded, slightly, when Castiel joined him in lying in the grass and resumed staring up at the clear, night sky speckled with tiny stars.

* * *

_..where I felt hope.._

* * *

"You're wrong."

Dean's brow furrowed as he turned his head to stare at the side of Castiel's features. They had been lying in silence for some time, just examining the heavens above. Dean had been trying to pick out all the constellations that served as a guide when a compass was not available. "You know," he began in an amused drawl that gave away his smile, "I usually have to state something before people start making accusations."

Castiel turned to meet his gaze and Dean felt his heart begin to pick up in pace. He hadn't realized how close they were, or why it felt that way in the dark. The distance between them was lost in shadows and all Dean could see were those eyes. The night made them dark, but there was a hint of a deep, dark blue as a backdrop. Most of all Dean could see the entire star-filled sky reflected in those eyes; the curve of the milky way, the point of the north star...

"What you said about there being no good in the world - you're wrong."

"Oh that," The grass hissed as Dean adjusted himself, propping his head up with an upturned palm. "I had a feeling you weren't going to let that go."

"I think you've spent so many years fixating on what was bad about the world, that you forget what good looks like."

Dean inwardly groaned, "If this is some speech about God–"

"No, it's about there being a balance in the world. That for there to even be a bad, there first has to be a good. If there was no good, what would be the point of morals, of merit. What would be the point in what you do. You hunt bad things, _evil_ things, but why would you do that if there wasn't something worth protecting; something good worth preserving."

The hunter wanted to argue, to flippantly disregard all of what Castiel said by voicing that he hunted because that's what his daddy taught him to do and that he didn't know how to do anything else. "It's called survival, Cas."

"No," The former bartender wasn't buying into it. "You _hunt_ these things, Dean."

"And where did you learn all this from?"

"Sam."

"Why am I not surprised."

"He was much forthcoming with answers than you," There was a faint curl of amusement in Castiel's tone that paired with the equally slight smile on his lips. Dean feign a glare and grunted - he had nothing to say on the subject. Castiel didn't let him off the hook so easily. "I see good in you."

Dean's chest tightened with a phantom pain. He swallowed, "Cas," He loathed how his voice broke on the man's name, lowering his tone to a whisper didn't help either, "Don't put your faith in me."

Castiel edged closer to better hear Dean's quiet words, "Why?"

The innocent curiosity to Castiel's question nullified Dean's attempt at a glare. Any other time Dean would have brushed the topic aside with a cocky smile and an indifferent attitude. Tonight the stars blanketed the sky and in the quiet of the dark Dean did not feel judged against. His words remained quiet, lost to the gentle breeze, "Because I'll let you down."

"You might."

Dean gritted his teeth.

"But..." It took effort for Dean to look back at Castiel's eyes as the man continued, "You don't get to chose where I place my faith."

"Cas, don't..."

* * *

_..where I thought I could reach him.._

* * *

In the dark of night, under the canopy of stars, it no longer matter who he was, or who Dean was. There was no one to bear witness, no one to cast judgment. In the moment there were only two beings that had existed in a solitude crafted from pain and loneliness. Unexpectedly they met at a crossroads; it only took a glance to recognize the reflection staring back. The roads behind them were twisted and shadowed and had wound along very different paths to arrive at the present. Yet there they met, one lost soul to another, and the pain was the same.

Where words failed, Castiel instead reached for Dean's face to make the intangible connection a physical one. His fingers slid along the stubble of Dean's jaw line. It wasn't the first time he had touched the man, but never was it so important to make that connection. When the touch came to the end curve of jaw, Castiel's fingertips curled inward and the back of his knuckles drew lightly along Dean's neck. Castiel hoped to express an acknowledged the other man's pain; that he recognized and understood it. Although his main concern was to show that Dean wasn't alone - didn't _have_ to be alone.

Castiel slowly raised himself up on an elbow, and using his hand as a guiding force, drew near. The move didn't catch Dean unaware, as it was impossible to not feel the closing proximity and Castiel paused where he could feel the warmth of Dean's breath against his lips.

"Cas..."

Dean hadn't pulled away even if there existed a faint questioning to the whisper. Castiel eyes drifted to a close as he tilted his head, brushing his nose against Dean's cheek, bringing their lips closer - ghosting over each other. He didn't want it to matter, all the superficial barriers that got in between, because all he wanted was to soothe that pain - in Dean, as well as in himself. To show in his own way that he saw behind the mask, that he saw the good in Dean, and he would do anything to make the man open his eyes and for once really see and appreciate what life had to offer.

It felt like he hung in that moment for an eternity, a little nervous but content all the same because Dean had not retreated. Then Castiel felt lips pressed against his own. Hesitant, the contact soft, but Castiel didn't drive it to be anything more. It was comfort from one person to another; made intimate to infuse with soul.

Behind closed eyes, he saw stars.

Then Castiel moved his lips and the heavens came tumbling down. His head was soon out of the starry sky and very much on earth savoring the taste of Dean's lips. Castiel drew away before he could succumb to the urge to use his tongue - and teeth - to better sample the lips against his own. He nipped down on the inside of his own lip and let his gaze sweep back and forth across Dean's expression made obscure by the dark. He felt Dean lean back toward him and Castiel's chin lifted and his lips parted on instinct as a hunger (normally so quiet) within him woke with a feline stretch and curled warm, low in his belly. But as much as his mind screamed _yes!_, no contact was made.

A few inches of distance between became a couple feet and as Dean rose to his feet to further separate them, Castiel felt his heart rapidly fleeing in his chest. He sank back against the elbow, shrinking away from the silent stare bearing down on him. For the first time in a long time, Castiel felt afraid. When the apparition had been attacking the Winchester brothers fear had not come into play. He hadn't felt fear in a long time. Now, having exposed himself to the very core because he had the foolish desire to make a connection with the man - to soothe that pain - Castiel became vulnerable.

And it hurt to watch Dean back away, turn, and disappear in the direction of the camp.

Castiel remained in the grass that rustled, the sound a reminder to him of how empty the field had become with Dean's absence.

* * *

_..I thought I could help.._

* * *

Sleep did not come to Castiel and when the dawn began to herald on the horizon, he gathered a fresh change of clothes and headed for the creek for a wash. He wanted the water, to splash it over himself, drown himself in it and pray that when he returned he had cleansed himself of his transgression. Castiel was not ashamed, but when Dean had stared at him with eyes cold and black with the night, he wanted to crawl into the nearest crevice to hide himself. They were hardly friends, if at all, and Castiel knew he had crossed the metaphorical line in leaps and bounds.

No sooner had he reached the bank of the creek did Castiel turn around to head back upon realizing he had forgotten to grab a new shirt. He retraced his steps, but slowed to a stop when the sound of a heated conversation caught his attention.

"I don't understand, Dean."

"What is there to understand? I want him _gone _- _today_."

"Did something happen?"

"Nothing happened! I never wanted him to come in the first place."

"And how am I suppose to–"

"–you invited him, so uninvite him."

Castiel didn't want to hear anymore. He turned and quietly picked his way back to the creek without the shirt. There he sat on the damp grass lining the bank. His fingers drew heavily down his features, the tips curling inward to scrape nails across the dark scruff that had only taken a night to grow back. Somehow he had forgotten his original intention for accepting Sam's offer to ride together. Dodge city was the goal, not... not whatever connection he'd been foolishly hoping to forge with the older Winchester.

_If you could see me now, Balthazar, I'm sure you'd laugh._

At that moment, as Castiel bowed his head to run both hands through his mess of dark hair, it would have been nice to hear laughter.

The indifferent creek babbled on.

* * *

_..I was wrong.._

* * *

_**A/N: **__Well Cas, I think you opened Dean's eyes to at least one thing._

_Ever have that moment when you imagine a scene, and you wanted to write it a specific way, but no matter how many re-writes you start, it doesn't seem to come out right. I am curious how it all came out. The kiss wasn't meant to be a super charged moment, at least not from Castiel's perspective. He was being very metaphysical in that moment - can't say the same for Dean. Oh yes, and Castiel insisted on mentioning the line he crossed a metaphorical one. Didn't want us readers to get confused with a real line.  
_

_Awwww, shy readers spoke up! Love you guys - as I love my regular reviewers! X.o.X.o!_

_It's starts with a kisssss.. _

**Read? Curious****? Review!**_  
_


	14. A Silent Guardian

**Chapter Fourteen: **A Silent Guardian

**By:** Zavijah

He left.

The son of a bitch _left_.

As true as it was that Dean had demanded Sam make Castiel leave, he knew his brother wouldn't do it. Sam's response to Dean flying off the handle was tell him, in a great deal more words, to suck it up. Dean had done just that and had excused himself (actually he angrily stalked away from the conversation) and went for yet another walk to try and sort out his addled thoughts. It took him hours but Dean had returned, hungry, and with intentions of telling Castiel that whatever happened between them last night - didn't. They would both ignore it and continue on with the ride and never, ever, speak about it again. It was the best solution.

Instead Dean had returned to camp to find the bastard _gone._

Castiel's horse, bedroll, _everything_ - gone. At first he had demanded why Sam made Castiel leave. Hypocritical of him, Dean knew, but at times he had little control over the crap that spilled unbidden from his mouth. Needlessly to say Dean was stressed out and what he needed was a drink, or a woman, but there he was in the middle of nowhere with neither vice at his disposal. Sam denied having said anything to Castiel, and Dean pegged his brother a liar until he caught a glimmer of amber out of peripherals.

The jar of honey sat on one of the rocks ringing the fire. Somehow Dean knew it had been set there with intention. Quiet, unassuming, a wordless apology. Dean had wanted to smash it against those very rocks. Sam stopped him - if only to save the honey. Bastard.

Two days later, Dean was still bitter.

"Dean."

Judging by Sam's tone, Dean was certain this was going to be another conversation he wanted to avoid. They were a day's ride from Abilene and that was one day too long when Sam kept pestering him. Dean had decided to take what he had called a short cut through a shallow canyon in hopes of cutting a half day's time out of their ride. The sooner they got to town, the sooner Sam could yammer with Bobby and Dean could saunter down to the Roadhouse to drink himself into a blissful stupor and not give a shit about anything or anyone.

"_Dean._"

A quick snap of heels sent his mare into a quick lope. The rhythmic strike of hooves against hard earth echoed through the canyon, the din from the constant ricocheting of sound making conversation impossible. Dean didn't know how many times he had to tell his brother he was _fine_. There wasn't a problem, and even if there was, no amount of talking was going to bring about a solution. The only thing that would happen from him spilling his guts is that afterward he'd feel pathetic. He wasn't a soft-hearted woman that needed a shoulder to cry on. God, he wasn't even that upset about it–

So why was he running?

Dean leaned forward, bringing himself out of the saddle as he urged his horse into a gallop to force his mind on the ride instead of allowing him the freedom of thought. He knew each twist and turn of the canyon as it had become a favorite nesting ground for various monsters over the years. Dean had shot his first werewolf here. Well, it was more shot _at_ the werewolf. Bobby had made the killing shot and then muttered about Dean wasting good silver as they rolled the body into a shallow grave.

The speed was therapeutic; the feel of the wind whipping at his face, the pull of muscle in his legs as his calves and thighs alternated between tensing and relaxing to stay in harmony with the mare's gallop. He loved the way he could slightly lean into the turns with her. The adrenaline surging through his body was the best; when he could just live in the moment. But it couldn't last. Dean could hear Baby's pants coming in harsh as she began to reach the limits of her full-on sprint.

The end came sooner than Dean expected. As he rounded a corner he was forced to pull back hard on his baby's reins. She screamed at him, rearing as they spun around once due to momentum, then twice as she continued to panic at the abrupt change.

This time Dean kept his seat.

"Easy girl," He whispered to his mount as he eased off her reins. His green eyes raked over the men blocking the pass in front of them. Four of them on the ground level, but he was certain he saw two tucked up against the walls of the canyon. Dean gave an unimpressed snort. His memories were busy reminding him of monsters that had once lurked the canyon that Dean forgot about the other kind of filth that sometimes set up in the crags, just waiting to make the right ambush. Dean ventured a guess that these low lifes were waiting for a coach to come rolling through, not him.

But when an opportunity presents itself...

"Where you boys off to in such a hurry?"

Boys; plural. Dean inwardly grimaced as he glanced over his shoulder to see Sam not far behind him. Even if they hadn't seen Sam, the sound of horse hooves echoing down the canyon was a dead giveaway. These marauders had heard them coming for the better part of a mile. Well, Dean thought with a grin stretching across his features, he had wanted something to distract him from his thoughts (and, granted, because of his brooding demeanor was why he was currently in this situation in the first place).

"Just out for a ride," Dean cheekily replied, double checking his count on the men and their various state of alarm. Only a couple had a hand resting on their sidearm. They weren't worried, given that they had the great number. "Didn't mean to interrupt your little pow-wow."

One man smiled, obviously the leader of the rag-tag group. He motioned with his head, "Why don't you just step on down from that horse."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa-" Dean held an open palm to the man. "You can have her war bags, but you're not taking my baby."

"You're not in any position to be negotiating. Now step down from that there horse."

Dean swung his leg around and lowered himself to the ground. He kept close to the mare's side, running a soothing hand along her damp neck in show, "I'll give her up only if you promise to water her, feed her, and tell her a story every night."

That earned a few soft chuckles from the men, and little by little Dean was centering their attention on him, which left Sam in the background. Dean gathered up the reins, loosely wrapped them around the saddle horn and gave his horse a pat on the flank to send her off the beaten path.

"Take off that pistol belt."

"You want me to strip too - that your thing? Just drop my breeches and let you and your men have your way with me?"

There were various noises of disgust from the men, but none drew to shoot him on the spot. Dean took that as a positive sign. He lowered his hands to his belt buckle and began to pull the leather through the latch as he again checked his count; definitely six men.

"I ain't a fancy lady, but I might make an exception for you." He directed a quick wink to one of the men. Angry hands went for guns but it was Sam's shot that fired first. About God damn time too! Dean was certain his brother was going to let him go on and on making an Aunt Fancy out of himself just for laughs. Dean threw himself to the side as he drew his own fire arm, picking off one of the men before slamming his back against a boulder for cover.

The canyon exploded in a hail of fire and Dean waited it out, keeping every bit of himself tucked against the rock. He took a quick peek around the side – five. Two rifles up high, three grounded with two on the right and one on the left – Dean flattened back against the rock as another round of fire was squeezed off at his choice in cover. He wasn't in a good position to fire back because of the look outs. They had him pinned with the advantage of higher ground.

As the din waned a second time, a rifle shot broke the silence. The ricochet of noise was wrong, Dean knew. He couldn't pinpoint it's exact location, but he could tell he had come from the opposite direction of the would be bandits. _Shit_. If there was a third scout that had moved to a better position on him and Sam — another shot left Dean's ears ringing as the sound pinged back and forth off the canyon walls. Then the yelling started.

"Where the sam hill is that coming from?"

"I dunno, but Pete's hit in a bad way - ain't worth it for a couple horses."

There were sounds of boots scraping over the loose dirt as the men scrambled to get to their horses and make a break for it. Dean popped up from over the boulder, aimed his pistol - but didn't fire. Hunting monsters he was okay with, shooting men that were trying to kill him was understandable, but Dean was never a man to shoot a fleeing man in the back. He moved his finger from the trigger.

A third shot sounded and a man toppled from his horse.

"That's enough!" Dean yelled up at the canyon walls. He stood from his cover and looked up at the ridges, but no one revealed themselves.

Sam broke from cover and move up next to him, shielding a hand against the sun to peer at the ridgeline. "Do you think Bobby..."

"No," Dean continued to search the top of the canyon. "Bobby would have already been down here calling us every name in the book if it was him."

Turns out, Pete didn't make it.

Dean and Sam rolled the bodies that had been left behind. They were up five guns (four pistols and one rifle) and a small cache of ammunition along with a fold of bills that would last them the next couple of days. They managed to grab a couple horses that were left behind and hadn't sprinted away. The dead men were left in their cloths, and boots, and given shallow graves. Even bastards like the men that had tried to rob them didn't deserve to be left in the sun and picked apart by carrion eating birds. By the time the last bit of dirt was tossed on the graves, their mysterious gunman still hadn't show and the sun was an hour or two from setting.

It was added to the list of things that pissed off Dean Winchester.

Dean was sore and extremely irritable by the time he and Sam rode into Abilene. The sun was but a sliver on the horizon and the moon was waxing at the far end of the sky. Sam headed toward Bobby's ranch, with the spare horses, and didn't even pose a question when Dean headed further into town. It was a well known habit of Dean's to visit the Road House for a couple of drinks. Hell, Dean always made the local saloon of any town his first stop.

Ellen owned the place, she was a friend of their father and Dean had fond memories of her that involved pie when he was younger. These days the woman was more likely to smack him upside the head than dish him up a side of dessert. As long as she served him a finger or two of whiskey, Dean was grudgingly alright with the change. As soon as he neared the bar the woman honed in on him. A glass smacked against the bar in front of him and Ellen poured him a dose while leveling him with a look.

"Hey El, anyone here talk about a shootout in the canyon west of here?"

"Too good for a hello, are ya?"

Dean shrugged, "Thought you didn't care for small talk."

"Don't you start thinking you know what I do and don't care about, Winchester. Your face has been missing from 'round here for some time now. Even if your daddy and I didn't part of the best of terms, I care well damn enough for you boys. Now where's your brother?"

Dean's head dipped forward like that of a scolded child, "He's fine, El. he's with Bobby."

"Oh now he's too good to drop in for a howdy-do as well?"

"El," Dean grimaced at the woman. "Don't be like that. I just want a drink - it's been a bad couple of weeks."

"Suck it up, you think you're the only one with that's been hurt? How do you think Bobby or I feel when you boys don't show your sorry asses for months. You boys are often the most selfish bastards I ever met, and I you know I see all types come through here. I know cold bloodied law breakers that still write home to their mothers."

In hindsight, Dean thought it might have been a mistake coming to the Road House first. The guilt trip was not improving his mood already made dour by Castiel's recent stint with them. Granted, Dean was likely to face the same chew-out from Bobby. Either way Dean would have to sit through it and make the necessary nods and rightfully chastised expressions. He weathered the biting remarks while steadily drinking his glass of whiskey.

The alcohol wasn't giving him quite the reprieve he wanted.

"Where's Jo?" Dean asked when Ellen made another round to fill his glass. Jo, being Ellen's daughter, was usually a constant fixture in the Road House. A petite thing with lazy, blonde curls. She had a flirtatious smile and a give-them-hell attitude that Dean found attractive in women. The only reason he'd kept his hands to himself around the girl was the fact that she was _Ellen's_ daughter and he really didn't want to get his head bitten off by the mother. Tonight, well, Dean was willing to bend his morals a bit.

"You know better than I would."

That didn't sound good, "Pardon?"

"She took off the last time you Winchesters came around. Something Must've lit a fire under her backside - you wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

There was concern in Ellen's gaze, but at the same time there was a heavy layering of accusation in her tone. Ellen not only thought, but _knew_, that Dean might have been the cause for her daughter's disappearance. The look alone made Dean bristle. This was yet another one of those conversations he didn't want to have because it would do nothing but further twist the dagger in his gut. Dean ran a hand over his tiring features, "We'll keep an eye out for her, okay Ellen?"

"You do that," She left the remains of the whiskey bottle before moving to tend to other customers.

Dean curled his fingers around the neck of the bottle and spend the next couple of hours drowning himself one draw of whiskey at a time. The saloon around him became a blur. There was a haze of half-remembered faces passing through his consciousness. A pattering of boots against the wooden boards and the occasional guffaw after bawdy joke. Dean sat apart from it. The restraints on his thoughts loosened as the bottled emptied and Dean found himself lost to a world all his own. He couldn't say when he stumbled out of the saloon, and whether it was under his own free will or because Ellen had given him the boot, but there he was all the same. His head tipped back, the bottle to his lips, and his eyes... his eyes were on the stars.

He hadn't really looked up at the night sky until that night Castiel had drawn his attention up to the heavens. It brought him back years, back to younger days when the weight on his shoulders didn't pull so heavily. Back to days when he didn't have a care in the world and when he looked up at the vast, starry sky or out across the endless frontier, and the world was so full of promise. He remembered spending nights by the fire cleaning out a gun, or sharpening a knife, and how he would put every bit of his life and effort into the work at his hands because he wanted to earn that approving look from his father. The look that said _good job, son_ because God knew those words never passed his father's lips. He remembered the looks from Bobby when the man taught him how to shoot and Dean hit all the cans off the fence with one shot each. He'd been so proud.

Now.. now everyone looked at him with a frown, with disappointment. Dean didn't even know what he had done that caused the change in perspective. Somehow he had let them down, he had let them all down. He had admitted as much to Castiel under a similar sky.

_'Don't put your faith in me.'_

_'Why?'_

_'Because I'll let you down.'_

He didn't want people relying on him for anything; didn't want to get their hopes up only to see the regret later cloud into the looks they turned his way. Hell, even Sam gave him those border-line looks of pity. And then there was Cas...

_'You might, but... you don't get to chose where I place my faith.'_

Dean didn't know what to say, staring back in those eyes that had captured the stars of heaven. It was a strange feeling to have someone believe in him and not be asking anything in return. Castiel said he saw the good in him, and Dean only wondered how the hell could the man see past all the shit that had messed up not only Dean's life, but his whole outlook on life, and still say there was good in him. Dean wanted to believe that he was doing the right thing, but that path was getting narrow and narrower and he was pretty sure that one drunken night he had stumbled completely off course and was now wandering aimlessly with a moral compass that was questionable.

Then he had kissed Castiel.

While it had been Castiel to close the distance, Dean had sealed the contact into a kiss.

In the moment he couldn't really pinpoint what had driven him to making that connection. There had been a faint curiosity about whether or not it would be as bad as he lead himself to believe - kissing another man. Mostly there had been the sense of Castiel reaching out toward him, and Dean had closed his eyes and let himself reach back. He remembered the relief that came from the press of lips against his own. He felt, for once, that no one expected anything from him. He wasn't being required to perform a certain role, to don a mask.

Then came the heat, the lightning, Castiel pulling back – Dean had been on the verge of pinning the smaller man to the grass with a devouring kiss before he caught himself. The physical link between them was severed and all at once Dean's reservations on the situation came rushing to the forefront of his mind. He couldn't be kissing a man. As nice as it had been, as wonderful as it felt to receive something so unconditional from the dark haired man, it wasn't something Dean had the freedom to pursue and.. and.. the bastard _left_.

It hurt - a lot.

It served as yet another reminder of why Dean didn't get close to people. The emotional pain cut deeper than any physical wound. His anger kept the pain raw, and he soul was bleeding all over the place and the alcohol wasn't helping in the least to numb the ache. If anything it had intensified it. Confusion, anger, regret, disgust – it all boiled in the same pot and with another tip of the whiskey bottle the emotional brew became volatile. Dean lurched to his feet and flung the rest of the bottle down the empty road.

"You god damn son of a _bitch!_" He directed his ire up to the stars. "Who asked you to care!?"

Silence met Dean as demanded a response from the stars with a glare. "I know it was you, Cas_tiel_. That was _you_ in the canyon, wasn't it."

A coyote cried in the distance, but Dean still didn't have his answer and he felt like his heart was going to be tear itself to pieces with how much it ached in his chest. "Who asked you - _who_ asked _you _to do anything? I didn't want your help - I didn't need to be saved, _you fucking Quaker_. Who the hell do you think you are?" The branded fleshed of Castiel's shoulders flashed through his memory. "-some guardian angel? I don't need your mercy, _Castiel_. I don't need _anything_ from you."

The lie left a bitter after taste on his tongue - that or the bile was creeping up the back of his throat in combination of the emotional outburst and whiskey. His throat was burning from the alcohol and yelling, and even now his eyes were starting to sting. Dean wavered where he stood in the empty road, his gaze falling from the sky to hit the dirt. The hurt left him raw and hollowed out.

His gaze flicked upward as a shadow detached itself from the darkened boardwalk. It was a man, a rider, and as the light of the moon bathed him as he stepped out from the dark, Dean felt his gut twist and coil like an agitated snake.

"Hello, Dean."

The hunter lurched forward, angry, and with strides that resembled nothing graceful, he quickly closed the distance and seized Castiel by the lapels of his duster. "You bastard son of a whore, where do you get off just comin' and goin' as you please."

Dean pushed Castiel back into the dark, pressed the smaller against the wall of the dry goods store. Which was more to do with the fact he was stumbling into the man because his drunken legs were anything but steady. His hands slid up from the coat to awkwardly cup at the sides of Castiel's face - pleased to feel the scratch of scuff against his palms. Dean actually growled when Castiel reached up to pull his hands away.

"Dean, you're drunk."

"An' you're a jerk," Dean tried to glare, but had to close his eyes to keep the world from spinning out from under his feet. He tried to loom over the man he was pissed at, but instead found himself pressing his forehead against the cool skin of Castiel's. "Why'd you leave?"

His stomach flip-flopped and Dean's drunken thoughts jumped track. All he could think about was dipping down to capture the other man's lips, to form that intimate connection that had the power to make everything else crumble away. All his troubling woes, his painful memories, the crippling weight on his shoulders. Just one kiss to make him shuck away his mask and be free; to capture that feeling of being nowhere, and having nowhere to be but under those stars.

The world tilted and Dean felt his stomach drop to his toes before it came rushing back up. Castiel's hand was on his shoulder and shoving him aside. Dean stumbled two steps before he fell to his knees, fingers curling around the edge of the boardwalk as he emptied the contents of his stomach onto the dirt between the horse trough and the wooden boards. He groaned in pain as his head throbbed.

Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and was ready to just curl up and spend the night there if not for the arm threading beneath his and curling around his shoulders. The hunter was hoisted back onto his unsteady feet by means of Castiel. Dean grabbed at the front of Castiel's shirt with his free hand. "You can't leave."

"You don't want me here, Dean."

"I do, I do," A drunken Dean pleaded in a voice more child than man.

Castiel didn't seem to be listening, as the bartender put his concentration on burdening Dean's weight while leading him into a building Dean couldn't recognize in his inebriated state. There were other people around, but Dean just kept staring at Castiel's stoic profile. Dean intoxicated mind began to brew, trying to formulate a clever plan to get Castiel's attention, but he lost that line of concentration when stairs appeared under his boots. He nearly had to crawl up the stairs with how uncooperative his feet were being.

Soon enough there was a bed beneath him and Dean gave a long sigh of relief. At least until he realized Castiel was going to leave. He swung his legs back onto the floor but before he could rise a hand settled on his shoulder and eased him back down to the sheets. Dean wrapped his hands around Castiel's wrist while his bleary eyes sought the man's face, "Everyone leaves. You can't leave."

Castiel, having surrendered his arm to Dean's desperate clutch, worked single handedly to remove Dean's boots, but his silence was the same as the stars.

"If everyone leaves, that means you leave too." Dean, unable to stop himself, continued to ramble with loosely formed thoughts. "But you're not like everyone. You - you get honey and if you want me to eat it. I'll eat it, I'll eat the hell out of it if that's what it takes to get you to stay."

"Dean..."

"No, no, no - don't do that tone. It sounds so sad, it doesn't have to be sad..." Dean felt the hand he was clinging to move from his collar bone to his hair. As fingers slowly ran along his scalp, Dean - in his drunken bliss - couldn't help but think it felt like the best thing in the world. All too late he realized the soothing touch was lulling him toward sleep and Castiel had not given him an answer. His consciousness tumbled into the darkness where he was haunted with dreams of endlessly falling into the dark. A hand was reaching for him, but no matter how much he try to grasp for it, he missed it by an inch that for all the world was the distance of a mile and he fell, and fell...

Until he woke a pile of limbs and blankets on the floor of a room he didn't recognize. His head was throbbing, his mouth felt like cotton, and his belongings were stack neatly by the small table and chair. He was alone, reeking of alcohol, and could scarcely remember his dream let alone last night. It call kind of blurred into one vague recollection where he couldn't tell one from the other. What he did know was that he had one raging bitch of a hangover.

A terrible start to the morning.

* * *

_**A/N:**__ Phew, it took me a while to update. This is actually two, maybe three chapters shortened and smushed together to make one. I also was going to stop at the "Hello, Dean" part and switch over to Castiel, but Cas informed me that he didn't have much to say and it would have turned out to be a very short chapter. So instead I pushed onward with a very blitzed Dean. So, let me know how this chapter turned out since I mushed it all together._

_Who's ready for some answers!?_

**.**

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**Review!**


	15. Of Angels and Demons

**Chapter Fifteen: **Of Angels and Demons**  
By: **Zavijah

"Don't you look gorgeous."

The sardonic greeting was the first thing Dean heard when he dragged his sorry ass into Bobby's house on the outskirts of town. It was an hour short of noon, and for what little Dean had done to clean himself up after a night of heavy drinking, he looked nothing short of a malnourished ghoul. His hangover was getting the best of him, but damn if Dean was going to let the tremors rattling down his arms show. Dean lifted his chin in a nod toward the bearded man leaning against the desk that had replaced a dining room table years ago. "Hey Bobby."

"Don't _'hey Bobby' _me, boy, your brother's been fillin' me in on your nonsense," His Uncle sipped coffee from a small tin cup. "Unless you're ready to stop beatin' the devil 'round the stump, I'll have none of yer blather."

Dean did his best to ignore how thirstily he gazed at the cup, going so far to squeeze his eyes shut and pinch the bridge of his nose. Under his breath he muttered, "Good to see you too, Bobby."

"Shut yer trap," Bobby shot at him - a firm tone but it lacked ire. "And git yer fool head n'here before you break it fallin' on something actually worth a dollar."

Bobby and Ellen both brandished a sharp tongue, but Dean knew they both cared. Honestly he needed a bit of tongue-lashing to get his head on straight at times, or to thicken his skin. Dean managed the short distance to the two seater couch and happily draped himself over the thin cushions. Only then did he glance across the room where Sam was perched on a stool with a fresh book cracked open in his hands. His brother kept his gaze downcast on the words, not meeting Dean's mild glare. Sam knew well that Dean abhorred people talking behind his back like he had some problem in need of intervention. Tch.

A glass of water was thrust upon him by Bobby. Dean glanced down at the cloudy quality to the water but didn't ask questions. He'd take anything to get rid of the headache splitting his head in two.

"Now," Bobby returned to the desk, his gaze lingered on Dean a moment before flicking over to Sam. "What was this fussing about finding some woman?"

Sam perked up, "Do you know anyone by the name of Bela?"

"Am I suppose to?" Bobby drawled with a hint of patronizing.

"I think she's some kind of hunter, in the sense that she knows about all the supernatural stuff, but instead of hunting the monsters, she's using them."

"How the devil is she _using_ a monster?"

Dean could hear Sam swallow, "Ghosts specifically.. she uh–"

"She robbed Sam of his horse, his guns, then left him in a salt ring with a vengeful ghost gaoler." Dean chimed, tossing a grin at Sam's annoyed glare. Embarrassing his brother was justified payback, not to mention it improved Dean's general mood.

Bobby peered at the younger Winchester, "You let her seduce you?"

"What?" A brilliant flush crept up Sam's neck and flooded into his cheeks, "No - _no_. She just - just caught me off guard."

"So what did she get?"

Here Sam's head bent forward, ashamed. Bela had got a good many things, but what the question asked was what had she gotten that was actually important. After a weighted silence Sam whispered, "Dad's journal."

Bobby's chest began to swell and the look he pinned on Sam was brimming with anger. Dean was thankful that for once he wasn't the one being the focus of that particular glare. Dean wasn't all that happy about what they had lost with Sam's stolen horse. Most of it was replaceable, and when it came to the journal Dean was more upset that it was their _Dad's_ and not the fact that it was their main source of information when they were unable to get a message to Bobby. Sam and Bobby were the ones that got up in arms over books and journals, not Dean.

"Let me guess, yer hopin' I have a copy."

Sam's expression brighten with hope, "Do you?"

"No, you idjit," Bobby spat. "Like I have the damn time to copy each and every journal that crosses my path."

It was worth a shot, Dean thought as he heard Sam sigh. Dean took sympathy on his younger brother and spoke up to momentarily draw the attention onto himself. "We're already set on tracking her down, Bobby."

"You damn better," Bobby's frustration swung from one brother to the other. "There's no tellin' what a gal like her might use with the information you've just put in her hands."

"Since we don't know where she went," Sam eased back into the conversation, steering it back on track with hopes of avoiding another verbal smack from their Uncle. "We know she recently acquired a necklace, and from what little she let slip to me when she was... taking my horse... I know she was paid to take it, so if you have any idea of who might employ someone like her... ?"

Bobby looked thoughtful, "Well... I don't know anyone in specific, but yer best bet is Dodge City."

On the couch, no one noticed the way Dean's expression paled.

"There's suppose to be a big poker tournament to happen in Dodge in a couple days here. Crowley's invited all the big wigs you can name and chances are one of them is your guy."

"Crowley, as in the Railroad King?" Sam queried.

"Right up there with them Copperheads, is there any other?"

Crowley owned more than the railroads that were quickly becoming the backbone of the frontier. He owned gambling halls, saloons, and brothels. The man was a master of trade and he made himself home in a one of the wickedest places in the west. No, there was no mistaking Crowley for any other man.

Dean rubbed at his eyes as he quickly lost interest in the conversation and began to contemplate a cat nap. He turned his back to the room and curled himself toward the back of the couch with closed eyes. Dean was fooling himself if he thought he could get away from his quickening thoughts. Dodge City. There were several reasons he wanted to avoid the city. It had been over three years since they had last shown their faces in Dodge, and they had left with a bounty on his head. Dean had never shared the story with Sam, but it was because of a gambling debt and a certain showgirl Dean _might_ have had relations with that had earned that bounty - courtesy of Crowley.

The last reason, and the one Dean was trying to ignore, was the quiet reminder that Castiel was bound for Dodge City. The mere mental whisper of the man's name brought on a vague recollection of last night. Dean's brow furrowed as he tried to grasp the one second frames flickering through his memory. A dream, he reassured himself, it was all just a strange dream. He had probably passed out at the bar and Ellen had someone drag him to a room.

But wouldn't she have sent him to Bobby's?

Dean shoved the thoughts aside and wriggled on the couch to get more comfortable. When his thoughts wouldn't ceased and started to edge toward hopeful, Dean sat up with an agitated growl. He hadn't been paying much attention to what Sam and Bobby had been jawing on about, but even if he had been listening, he would have interrupted all the same, "Bobby, what do you know about brands?"

His Uncle skeptically looked Dean over, "I've got a couple mavericks out back in need of branding if yer that restless."

Bobby wasn't dense, not in the slightest, so Dean knew the seemingly pointless remark was more of a pot-shot meant to force Dean to spit out what he really wanted to ask instead of being vague. "I'm not talking about cattle brands, I mean brands on people."

"Yer still going to have to be more specific than that, boy."

Dean glanced at Sam's suddenly interested face before gazing back at his Uncle. He swallowed, not so certain he wanted to continue the conversation he'd started. "Wings, a brand that looks like... wings."

Instead of getting belittled, like Dean expected, Bobby once again looked thoughtful. The man stroked his beard before rounding his desk to fetch a slip of paper and writing tool. As the items were handed over, Dean couldn't help but take notice of the wariness tightening the corners of Bobby's eyes. Dean once again looked toward his younger brother to see if the nervousness was there as well, but Sam only looked on with curiosity.

Dean set the paper against his thigh and for a long time stared at the blank parchment as he tried to remember the brand spanning across the back of Castiel's shoulders. He did his best, scrawling out the elegant curves and elongated ovals that looked like feathers, but what he managed to draw was crude and nothing like the intriguing design he'd seen seared into skin. Dean frowned as he held the paper out for Bobby to take.

His Uncle meticulously studied the drawing before he peered down at Dean, "You killed one?"

Green eyes widened, "One what? He's a _'what'_?"

"An Angel."

Dean's lips parted, speechless. Thankfully Sam spoke the words Dean couldn't form, "An _angel? _Like God and heaven–"

"_No_," Bobby's snapped with ample frustration. "An _Angel_."

Several glances were exchanged between the three before Bobby threw his hands up in disbelief. "You dim-witted nail benders. Yer so focused on monters huntin' that you forget about people. You've got the Dalton Gang, the Farrington Brothers, then you got these guys." Bobby held up the rough drawing. "The Angels."

Sam lifted an unimpressed brow, "So they're just another bandit group."

"They're vigilantes, dumbass." Bobby toned with a warning edge. "And not your average do-gooders. These boys are worse than having a pack of marshals on your heels. They don't bother asking questions, know their way around a gun and they're devoted to their cause."

"And what's that?" Dean asked, finally managed to find his voice.

Bobby shot him a narrowed look, "With a name like the Angels, take your best guess."

"Smite the wicked?"

"Bingo, kid." Bobby tossed the drawing onto his desk. "They're more like a cult than a gang. Take vows n'all that, the brand is like their rite of passage. They're even given new names once they're accepted."

Dean bite down on the tip of the tongue - but he had to know. "Names like Castiel?"

Sam shifted in his seat, eyes widening, but Dean ignored it and intently watched Bobby. The older man's face scrunched up in thought, but he shrugged, "They tend to stick to names of Angels, and I'm a bit rusty on my lore. There's Michael, Lucifer, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel.. but from there I'm not familiar with 'em. Castiel sounds peculiar enough to fit in with the rest."

Dean's mouth hung open during the few moments he couldn't properly think.

_'Do you know a man named Michael?'_

Castiel had expressed, in actions more than any words, that he was worried about Dean knowing some man named Michael. It hadn't made sense at the time, but now the pieces were falling into place to give Dean the right perspective.

_'It ever cross your mind that maybe he wants you alive?'_

_'He's not the type.'_

_'The type to stick you in a salt ring?'_

_'The type to bother keeping someone alive. Lucifer on the other hand..'_

From the very beginning Castiel had been honest with him, but Dean had been too belligerent to pay it any mind. Dean had been digging for some hidden secret, and it had been right in front of his face the whole time. Dean ran fingers down his face in disbelief. It all sounded so bizarre.

_'Cas, you're mixed up with some bad people, aren't you.'_

_'They're not bad people.'_

Dean gave a short, nervous laugh at his own thoughts, earning quizzical looks from his brother and Uncle.

_'I'm getting the feeling they are bad people, and I have a pretty good instinct when it comes to pointing out bad stuff.'_

_'I.. you wouldn't understand. It's complicated.'_

Yeah, Dean agreed, it was complicated, but Dean _did_ understand. It was the same ground he stood on as a hunter. He was part of a group that was apart from the masses and they all dedicated their lives to hunting down evils. Dean hunted evil monsters, Castiel hunted evil men. It was funny. It really was, because Dean had been convinced that Castiel wouldn't know the first thing about how to shoot another man. The guy was such a _pacifist._

"Is there somethin' you want to share with the rest of us, boy?"

Blinking out of his daze, Dean frantically glanced between the other two men, "Uh... w-why would one Angel turn on another?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Bobby replied. "Likely the usual thing that happens between groups. Betrayal, disobedience, rebellion. Take yer pick. Whatever it is, it's their business. Don't be poking your nose into it, n'if you've killed one, best burn the body so that word doesn't get back to the rest of the flock."

Sam piped up, "Is it coincidence that Castiel's bar burned down?"

Dean, knowing the question was directed at him, only flicked a glance at his brother. He honestly didn't know, and the whole picture was a bit hard to take in. He cracked a smile, "All I know was that he was a shitty bartender."

"You two want to clue me in on this?" Bobby impatiently crossed his arms.

"We met this man," Sam began after noticing Dean's hesitation. "He said his name was Castiel. He owned a saloon in Willow's Bend until it was burned down several days ago. He was riding with us, said he was headed for Dodge City." Sam's gaze slid to Dean. "I didn't see a brand."

Dean glared, not wanting to clarify that little detail, but Bobby's gaze was waiting on him. His jaw tightened a moment before he muttered, "He was changing, I saw it, asked about it but he wouldn't explain it."

A grunt from Bobby, "Well if he's headed for Dodge, all the better for him and for us to stay out of it."

Dean couldn't help but ask, "What's in Dodge?"

"The rest of the Angels," Bobby said it patiently, but there was a note of exasperation behind the tone; like Dean should already know these things because they were just that glaringly obvious. "He won't be welcomed back with open arms, the two brothers that founded the group had something of a falling out and they've been warring over control of the city since."

"I thought Crowley owned everything."

"Yeah, he might, but where Crowley owns the businesses, he isn't the law. I'm not talking about sheriff and deputy here. We're looking at who has influence over the people in the city; of who has the say in who lives and who dies. Crowley don't care 'bout what kind of people give him business, but Michael and Lucifer do."

Dean tonelessly hummed at the information, "Who's winning?"

"Don't really matter. If someone so much as toes in between those two, they're dead. All the more reason for you two not to go sniffing 'round their heels."

"Don't have to tell me twice," Dean muttered.

Sam grimaced, "We still have to go to Dodge to find Bela..."

Right, there was that little factor. It shouldn't be that much of a problem, aside from the bounty on Dean's head, but it had been a small amount compared to some of the outlaws that had ridden through Dodge. The odds were that Dean had been forgotten in favor of more generous bounties. Still, he should probably lay low, maybe even stay in Abilene - ignoring the protest in his chest at the idea. Castiel would be in Dodge City, and Dean was concerned (as much as he tried to curse the feeling into damnation, he was still concerned) about what intent Castiel had for going. It was none of Dean's business, but even if he ignored that feeling and told himself the smart thing was to sit in Abilene, Dean knew he couldn't let Sam go into the city by himself.

Dean settled his attention on his little brother, "Are you feeling lucky?"

Sam exchanged a look with Bobby before curiously cocking his head to one side. Bobby caught onto Dean's line of thought a heart beat later, "You want him to play in the tournament?"

While Sam looked favorable to the idea, Bobby was not as well receiving of the plan. "You idjits really don't know how to keep your heads down, do you."

"Well it is a good way to get into the scene and see who might be paying Bela," Sam ventured forth with simple reasoning. "The chances are that she'll even be there and lead us right to the man, the whole two for one kind of deal."

Bobby gave a surrendering sigh and Dean did his best not to pump his fist in victory. As if sensing Dean's inner celebration, Bobby leveled the young hunter with a stern glare, "This is a fool's plan, I hope yer aware of that." The man gave another sigh before picking his hat off the desk. "We might as well go and see how the cat jumps."

Whoa, wait, Dean's brows shot upward, "We?"

"Yes _we_," Bobby replied, annoyed that he had to continually repeat himself. "You think I'm gonna just sit 'round while you two sapheads fix to get yerselves a case of lead poisoning or someone loops a rope 'round yer necks? Someone will need to pull you out of Dodge, might as well be me."

Dean couldn't help but smile at that. As much as he wanted to tell Bobby to stay behind, to remain somewhere he considered to be safe, he couldn't help but feel a warmth spread through his chest. The man was a damn curly wolf, and about a friendly as a honey badger, but there were moments when Dean realized just how much the man looked over them like a father. It was another one of those things that Dean didn't want - people caring about him - but it came unconditionally. Dean didn't get a say in the matter. But he had to put forth a little resistance, "You sure? Ranch doesn't take care of itself."

Bobby snorted, "You think I just sit around on my ass all the time? Yer not the only hunter, boy."

A sly smile slipped across Sam's features as he picked up on Dean's needling, "Not exactly in your hay day, Bobby."

Thier Uncle puffed up, his face turning a scarlet shade and he glared defiantly at the two young hunters. "You two don't know your tail from your heads for all the shit that comes out of both ends. Put yer big boy spurs on, 'cause I ain't waiting for you two mucks to man up. Entries for the tournament end at sundown." With that, Bobby stalked out of the house, letting the front door bang shut behind him.

Both Dean and Sam gazed after their absent Uncle, both chuckling once they were sure he was out of ear shot. Dean made a move for the kitchen to scrounge up a quick bit to eat, Sam was soon on his heels. "So, Castiel..."

Dean made it a point to not turn around, "Don't want to talk about it."

"Then I'll talk, and you'll listen."

Glowering, Dean planted both palms against the counter and stared out the small window that looked out over the cattle pens. He saw Bobby moving into the barn on the far side where the horses were kept separate.

"I don't know what's going on between you and Castiel, but Bobby's right about us needing to stay out of the whole Angel business. Promise me you'll leave whatever it is alone."

Dean lifted a hand to run it through his hair, vaguely remembering the fingers that had done the same motions last night. He should be able to make that promise - yet reluctance kept his jaw firmly shut. "Don't know what you're fretting over, Sammy." The words came out stiff, and Dean shrugged off the tension to reach for the wrapped bread and cut himself off a chunk before turning around to find his brother still standing sentry behind him. Dean knocked his shoulder against his brother's as he brushed past, gnawing on the bread as he headed for the door.

"You heard Bobby, we've got until sundown to get to Dodge. Time's a wastin'."

* * *

_**A/N:**__ I debated about where to stop this chapter, this ended up being the best spot otherwise I would have written another 9k word chapter. So, among other things, you have some answers about Castiel. Some. A little more information is coming in the next chapter, but where I give a few answers, I hope I'm bringing up new questions. Let's have a bit of a history lesson just to hint at where I might be headed plot-wise._

_Abilene and Dodge City are real places in Kansas, the latter being the famous one in history. Dodge City was often called the Wickedest Little City in America. Famous outlaws and lawmen walked those streets, but the city itself didn't come into full bloom until some years after the Civil War. So you can surmise what year this story is playing around – after the Civil War, when the push into the west was strong and building railroads was a huge ordeal. There also is a little something called the Dodge City War (which was its own little civil war, if a bloodless conflict, more political). Feel free to do your own research, I've prattled enough._

_Copperheads, that's related to Copper Kings, which I know my small share about given I live in a town named after a certain copper mine owned by one of the famous Copper Kings._

_Gosh, there is just so much I could say about the little things in this chapter, like how I had watched Bobby Singer tributes on youtube and was nearly in tears, I digress. Ahem, what did you guys think of how I added angels into the story? ;3_

_Also, yes, I've changed the title of the story after much debate. The original title was more of a throw-up place holder and it has been bugging me for a long time. It was just going to be "A Soldier's Heart" but there is book/movie/song with that title in existence, so we still have mask part of the title. My use of Soldier's Heart is related to the medical/psychological condition ;3_


	16. These Small Moments

**Chapter Sixteen: **These Small Moments**  
By: **Zavijah

The afternoon found Dean and Sam Winchester idling on their mounts outside the Road House. Bobby was inside after stopping them with a grumbling about needing to attend to some business. Dean had made to follow him inside for a quick shot for the road, but Bobby had stopped him in the saddle with a sharp look. Whatever business Bobby was seeing to, apparently Sam and Dean were not allowed to witness it.

Dean waded through reasonable explanations before lazily grinning at one in particular, "You don't think Bobby and Ellen are..."

"I could have done without that mental image, Dean." Sam replied, pinching the bridge of his nose.

The grin slowly slipped from Dean's features. He hadn't meant for his meaning to go into anything detailed, but now that Sam had enlightened him to the more intimate possibilities, Dean shared in his brother's agitation. Yeah, those were mental images he wanted to scrub from his mind's eye. Dean glanced, warily, toward the closed door of the Road House. He really, really, didn't want to know what was going on inside anymore. With that thought in mind, Dean turned his mount to head on down the road.

Sam straightened in the saddle, "Dean?"

"Just need something to wash those images from my head," Dean joked, but caught the flicker of a frown across Sam's face. Instantly Dean's shoulders stiffened in defensiveness. There was nothing wrong with wanting to buy a strong drink for the ride ahead of them. Dean pressed his mare to quicken her trot and put distance between him and his brother's disappointed look.

Abilene was not a sleepy town for being pushed out of the cattle trade. Dean caught glimpses of life as he passed by the small houses and store fronts. A pair of boys were near a stunted crab apple tree, sticks in hand, and were trying to scare an old yellow tom cat out of the branches by the look of things. Nearby a woman watched their antics, pushing the stiff straws of a broom across the boardwalk in front of a store. A glance beyond her shawl covered shoulders showed a window filled with candles. Dean wondered, as he rode past, if candle making was a profitable business. He didn't think so.

The soft _puff_ of steamed air sounded from the rail station on his left. The engine steadily hissed as water dripped from tank to the ground heated below its hot belly. Dean spared a curious glance at the tired conductor hanging out the window, then to the men down the tracks that were opening the sliding door of one of the box cars. One man had a tally board in hand and Dean could see him pointing his finger at various items inside as he counted.

Ahead of the goods were the passenger cars, the glass windows too small and clouded from dust for Dean to make sense of the faces he saw inside. All but one of a child who had his face pressed flush against the glass to see everything that could be seen outside the train.

Poor suckers, Dean thought to himself. He hated traveling by train - all that rocking and jerking about and having absolutely no control over it. The hunter suppressed a shudder and moved on to the general goods. He loosely tied Baby to the post outside and ducked inside the quiet store to gather himself a few supplies. He came back out with a wad of chew for Bobby, a short bottle of whiskey for himself, and some strange nuts he thought Sam might like. He also bought a fresh bunch of jerky strips to be shared among the three of them.

Dean stuck a fresh strip in his mouth, lazily gnawing on it as he packed the rest into his saddle bags. He spared another curious look toward the platform beside the idling steam engine. The _puffs_ had grown impatient. The hissing of the inner pipes now a constant sound. A few people were milling on the platform, waiting to be allowed passage on the iron horse. Dean would rather keep his ride of the flesh and blood kind. The train struck Dean more as the ferrier of the dead, or the to-be dead. It was a gamble to ride on a train. It only had one track, and one way to travel, and just one little bump could send the whole thing derailing into a piled heap of iron and blood.

The poor saps were boarding and Dean found himself shaking his head. There was no way in hell he would – the movement of a tan colored duster pulling across a familiar set of shoulders of a man climbing onto the train halted Dean's line of thought. He closed the flap of his war bag and abandoned his horse's side to drift toward the small station. Whatever he had seen, _who_ever he had seen, was gone and boarded.

It couldn't be - could it?

Dean took a few more strides toward the train, angling around to try and peer in through the dingy windows for a familiar face. All to no avail. Another insistent _whuff_ from the engine's chimney; the train was building up steam for departure. Dean spun back around, squared his shoulders and stalked back toward his horse. Dean made it two steps before pivoting back around to glance once more at the passenger cars.

No - just, no.

Dean grabbed the leather of his reins, but did not mount. Instead he stood there, fiddling with the straps while casting side-long glances at the rail station. Bobby and Sam found him still stalling there several minutes later. Before Sam could inquire about the nervous fidgeting, Dean tossed the reins at his younger brother. "So I was thinking..."

Bobby groaned.

"It takes nearly a full day to ride to Dodge, and we're already down half a day. So uh.. I was uh..."

"Don't waste the time we have left or anything," Bobby lightly scorned.

Dean began nodding his head toward the rail station, unable to get the right string of words together. Sam glanced in the gestured direction, his brows instantly shooting upward. "Dean, you hate trains."

"Yeah, well..." His heart gave a panicked flub-dub inside his chest, then proceeded to race when the train whistle shrilled. "We won't make it before sundown. So I'll go on ahead and sign us up for the tournament, get us some rooms, and meet up with you two later tonight."

Neither Sam nor Bobby looked convinced, especially not with how Dean nervously wrung his hands as he continued to cast uncertain glances over his shoulder toward the station. The whistle blew a second time and Dean began to earnestly edge toward the train, he flashed his relatives a lopsided grin and shot out the best lie he had at his disposal, "I saw this woman, and..."

Bobby and Sam both gave their version of a snort and eye roll and Dean felt giddy that he had wiggled free of the prying questions. He raised his hand in a parting wave, "You'll know where to find me in Dodge."

There was cussing to be heard, but Dean merely smiled as he doubled his pace to duck into the station. He was fumbling with the bills plucked from his duster as he paid for the ticket. By the time Dean stepped out onto the platform, the train was steadily puffing a continuous line of white steam into the air. Vents along the engine wheels hissed as they spat out more white steam, engulfing the gleaming black body of the engine, making it all that more demonic in appearance. The steed was one straight out of hell. Black - black was such an ominous color. Dean almost lost his nerve at the stepping stool. The young, uniformed man next to the step smiled at him - glancing at the ticket Dean held out with trembling fingers.

"Go on ahead, sir. The train will be departing shortly."

He would do that - in a moment. Dean tightened a hand around the vertical rail and willed himself to climb the steps. The first step was the hardest, the hurdle, but once he cleared it Dean let momentum take him the rest of the way up into the passenger car. He exhaled slowly and worked his way down the narrow aisle while glancing at each and every face. He saw women with children, couples, men young and old. He had to peek over the edge of a paper to see the face of one man that gave him a shrewd look in return.

However, look as Dean might, he didn't see the tan duster he'd spied earlier.

He reached the end of the car, pulled the door open and after eying the gap between cars he made the wide step across to prowl through the next car. Dean's head swung back and forth between the seats, still not finding who he had hoped to see. There was a woman seated alone near the back, young with dark brown hair and pale blue eyes. The lipstick she wore was a dark shade to match the red-violet satin of her dress. Her smile was coy, but her eyes were confident. Dean entertained the idea of claiming the seat across from her, but found his attention stolen by the glimpse of tan in the train car beyond.

This time Dean cleared the gap between cars with a touch more confidence. The next car was made of compartments with a vestibule down the middle. Dean's ticket was for the coach seats, but he'd like to see anyone try and kick him off the train. He peeked into the narrow slats of each door until he found what he sought. The hunter didn't hesitate, pulling open the door and closing it behind him once he stepped inside.

The startled look on Castiel's face was worth it.

Dean reached up to grasp the shelf above the couch seat where Castiel sat. Green eyes quickly took in the Angel's appearance, the light colored duster was familiar, but beneath the road-worn garment was attire unfit for traveling abroad. The clothes were clean, freshly pressed with a flat iron, and the colors were dark. The other man was in his Sunday best; black trousers, white button up, a matching black waistcoat with silver buttons and the chain of a pocket watch looping from one such button and tucking into the small pocket. Even the gun belt matched, a black leather tooled with the design of wings. Castiel wore a pair of six shooters that Dean had not seen in the past. In fact, Castiel had made it a point to _not_ carry a sidearm in the past.

Quite suddenly, Castiel did not seem like the dour bartender from nowhere-town. No, he was something entirely else, more than some run-of-the-mill gun slinger. Castiel was clean, proper, and lighted with purpose. He was a lawman without the silver star. Dean grinned to himself, Castiel was an _Angel_, abiding by God's will and exacting his wrath.

Yet for all the professionalism Castiel expressed, his hair was still a tousled mess that made Dean's smile edge a little wider.

"Hello... Dean," Castiel's blue eyes flickered up to Dean's grinning face before peering out the window. His next words were directed more at his shoes than at Dean. "I see you've recovered well."

Dean snapped out of his daze, honing his gaze on Castiel's adverted features instead of marveling at the mere sight of him. He managed a grin, "You weren't going to leave without saying good-bye now were you?"

The Angel's brows drew together in a subconscious frown. His blue eyes once more made a sweep over Dean's relaxed posture, studied the floor under his feet, and peered expectantly out of the window. Castiel posture was stiff as he settled palms against the top of his knees and finally met Dean's gaze for more than a fleeting second. He gave a tense nod, "Goodbye."

Dean's brows rose, "You're kidding, right?"

The confusion furrowed more deeply between Castiel's brows, "No."

Despite everything, Dean found himself smiling, and for once it was a genuine expression. Castiel was just so ridiculously out to lunch half the time and Dean couldn't help but find the cluelessness endearing. Other times it was just plain frustrating, but being that Dean was happy – grudgingly so – to see the man, his relief with having found him made everything fuzzy and pleasant. Or, that might have been whatever Bobby had slipped into his drink that morning. Whatever.

Castiel shifted on the seat before clearing his throat, "The train is going to be leaving soon."

Dean procured the ticket from his pocket, holding it up for Castiel to see and hopefully understand the simple fact that Dean wasn't planning on going anywhere soon. He stuffed the ticket back into his pocket, "So did it hurt?"

Castiel's head gave a small, questioning tilt.

"Your fall," Dean fought to keep his tone level and the planes of his expression serious when all he wanted to do was grin like a damn fool drunk on giddiness. His tongue slid over the edge of his teeth, savoring Castiel's profound confusion as he toyed with the man. "Your fall from heaven, as I hear it, you're an Angel."

Dean _may_ have been devising a way to use that line since hearing about the whole angel business. The hunter had no doubt the line could have made a young maid blush, but Castiel – Castiel just bowed his head as if ashamed. There was something wicked but delightful in making an angel uncomfortable. Castiel was suppose to be a big time gunman, but here he was, shoulders hunched forward, eyes on the floor, and his arm crossing over his knees to clasps hands together.

"So what's your name?"

Castiel's head turned, just enough for Dean to see a sliver of blue from the corner of the man's eyes, "I don't understand - you know my name."

"Castiel isn't your name."

"It _is_ my name," the angel stated firmly.

"Fine," Dean raised a palm to Castiel to detour any building irritation. "But it's not your only name, you had another one before all this angel business."

The muscle in Castiel's jaw worked, chewing over inner thoughts that remained silent. His hands parted, and the angel's blue eyes swept over his open palms as if reading something in the lines there. Dean edged a little closer to sneak a peek but saw only pale skin roughened with fresh calluses. Dean reached over, hesitating a heart beat before lightly drawing his finger along where palm met fingers. Instantly Castiel's sapphire gaze questioningly sought Dean's face - his attention back on the conversation instead of whatever thoughts had drawn him into the brooding state.

"Your name," Dean softly reminded him.

Castiel's lips moved, but once again his gaze became distance and slid away to the window. Dean could only wonder what was so powerful about a single name to make a gunslinger quiet. At first Dean had just been curious, but the more Castiel hesitated to answer, the more important it became to know the little truth. It was just a name, a name that – oh. It dawned on Dean, belatedly, that with the name came everything that was Castiel before the man even became Castiel. The name was much like the lock keeping the door shut on the past neatly packed away into the closet.

Dean shouldn't pick at it.

A shrill whistle cut through Dean's thoughts and his fingers tightened on the luggage shelf. He was glad he did because the next moment the train gave a lurch followed by a series of shuddering jerks. Dean's control of the situation swiftly crumbled as his confidence curled in on itself. His knuckles went white as he tried to keep a grip on both the rail and his composure but only succeeding in one. Suddenly, but not surprisingly, he really - _really_ - wanted off the train. The compartment door was behind him, but Dean couldn't bring himself to let go of the rail to turn and leave.

"Dean?"

He must have gone pale - he _felt_ pale. Castiel stood, gripping the railing next to Dean's hand as the train continued to jerk and pull away from the station platform. Castiel's free hand touched against his elbow with a gentle pressure that urged him toward the bench seat. "Sit."

Dean wanted to, he really wanted to, but he couldn't seem to uncurl his fingers. The abrupt knocking on the door didn't help his frazzled nerves. Dean nearly jumped out of his skin. The reaction was subdued to a stiffening of his shoulders, but Dean he found he couldn't budge even as the attendee called out for tickets. Castiel ducked under his arm, fingers passing along the front of Dean's chest with a faint pressure meant to keep them apart as the train shambled along the track. Dean found himself leaning into the to the touch as if it were an anchor. It was an irrational fear, Dean knew, but it didn't stop him from pressing a hand over the one on his chest. His fingers tightened over Castiel's pale digits with a zeal all their own.

"Tickets?"

The attendant punched a hole in Castiel's ticket and turned his gaze expectantly to Dean. All Dean needed to do was let go of either the shelf, or Castiel's hand, and reach into his pocket. Yet with the train steadily picking up speed, the land sliding along outside the window, Dean couldn't move. Petrified, paralyzed, and it he was self-aware enough to be very embarrassed about it. Worse, he felt Castiel's free hand slipping into his pocket to fetch his ticket.

The ticket puncher sounded, but the man was hesitating. The young man cleared his throat, "I'm sorry sir, but I need to ask you to return to the other passenger car. You are not paid for these seats."

"He's fine," Castiel's graveled voice always sounded on the verge of a growl, "I invited him."

"I'm sorry but–"

Castiel reached into his duster, and it must have startled the man into thinking the it was a gun being drawn. Castiel pulled free a bill from a fold in his chest pocket and held it between two fingers for the attendant to take. The young man curled his hand around the bill, nodded his head and left. Castiel shut the door and drew the privacy curtain over the small window. By then the train's motions had smoothed out enough to for Dean's anxiety to abate a little. He still had his fingers tangled with Castiel's, and at this point he was staring at their clasped hands with a pensive frown.

He'd done this before.

"Dean, sit."

The hunter allowed himself to be guided to the cushioned bench, but he didn't immediately release Castiel's hand. Heat still clung to Dean's cheeks, and as his gaze flickered between their joined hands and Castiel's concern filled blue eyes, he felt them burn more darkly in shame. He wanted to know why it felt familiar to hold Castiel's hand, to not want him to leave, but what came out of his mouth was a meek, "I don't like trains."

Castiel spared him a weak smile before extracting himself from Dean's grasp so that he could access the bag he had stowed on the luggage shelf. Dean found his gaze drawn to the way Castiel's vest inched upward, the shirt tucked into the hem of pants kept any skin from being flashed, but Dean's mind still whirled as if he was spying on something forbidden. Dean closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall behind him. In a way it all frightened him. Dean was always a man that had everything under control, always on his game, but it seemed like each time he found himself around Castiel, all of that went out the window.

This had been true even before _that night_ out under the stars.

Dean didn't like the confusion, but at the same time he found himself drawn to chaotic storm it created in his mind and how peaceful he had felt in that single moment when their — no, god damnit. He didn't want to think about that anymore. It was problem enough that he couldn't seem to think clearly around Castiel.

"Here."

Opening his eyes, Dean took in the small flask being offered to him. He took it, careful to avoid brushing fingers with Castiel's, although his eyes repeatedly scanned over the angel's face. Dean unscrewed the lid, sniffed at the contents within – it wasn't whiskey. An uncertain look went across the compartment to where Castiel had chosen to sit, then Dean threw back a swig without waiting for an answer because he knew right then that he trusted Castiel. The hunter's face pinched with distaste as the bitter liquid hit his tongue, but there was a sweetness that was left once he swallowed it down.

It wasn't so bad after the first swig.

Castiel watched Dean for a long while; saying nothing. The concern had faded, replaced by a soft thoughtfulness. Dean shifted, uncomfortable, swallowed down another mouthful of whatever medication the 'doc' had prescribed him before holding it out to the angel. Castiel observed the offer a moment before sitting up to meet Dean's outstretched hand in the middle of the compartment. The flask becomes an olive branch as Castiel accepted it, withdrawing to his side of the small compartment.

Dean could have been happy with that moment, sharing it in mutual silence with only a thread of tension marring the atmosphere. There were things that Dean wanted to say, to know, but he didn't want to spoil his comfortable mood.

Then the train car jerked and Dean's squeezed his eyes shut and grasped the seat cushion for dear life.

He could just feel those blue eyes burning into him, watching intently, and Dean can't help but growl in humiliation. He doubled forward, elbows on knees as his hands sliding through his short hair. All the while he mentally screamed at himself to get a grip. It was just a train. Trains ran back and forth all the time without incident. There was no reason to –

"Why don't you like trains?"

Dean lifted his head just far enough to glower, not at all appreciating the attention honed in on the show of weakness. "Are we playing the question game?"

It took Castiel a moment, and a tilt of head, before he recalled the day they had spent encircled in salt. Blue eyes drifted thoughtfully to the thin flask in his hands. He playfully tilted it toward Dean in a mock offer.

Dean snorted with partial amusement, "There's only one track. One track. A train can't dodge, can't jump, can't do anything but plow forward. All it takes is one rail out of place and we're all fucked. We have no control over it, we just have to trust it. What if someone decides to blow a bridge?"

A contemplative furrow drew along Castiel's brow as the man shifted his attention to the window. Dean didn't dare look beyond the glass because he was certain that seeing the moving landscape would make him ill. He lifted his hand and drew the small curtain on his side of the window. Castiel didn't do the same, instead sliding a small slate of glass aside to provide an opening. The purpose behind his actions becoming clear when he reached into his duster to retrieve a small malleable case from which he drew out a hand rolled smoke.

"There is no bridge on this section of line," Castiel offered the opened case along with the words. Dean waved aside the smokes, and Castiel tucked them back into his inner pocket. He procured a match and light it off a worn spot on the inside step of his boot. After lighting the end, the spent stick was tossed out the window.

"I wish I could say knowing that is comforting, but it's not." Dean continued to run his fingers through his hair, trying to shift his mind to anything but the track they were shambling along.

"James."

Dean lifted his head enough to curiously regard Castiel. The angel was no longer looking at him. The smoke curled from around his hand, snaking upward to be sucked out the small gap in the window. Castiel watched it with a mild fascination, blowing his own exhales of smoke out the window in a slow stream. It was oddly intriguing to watch. Dean had seen plenty of men, and women, smoke, but this was the first time he found himself actually _watching_; like Castiel was a painter with brush, there was an effortless way.. a naturally artistic way the man conducted himself. It melded with the light and dark tones that made up the man. At the moment Dean found the soot black hair, the shadow of stubble, and cornflower blue eyes that were so vibrant in comparison to be the most captivating.

Then he wondered what the hell had been in that drink Castiel gave him, because his mind was going to unusual places.

Those eerily blue eyes shifted to him as the silence extended, "That was my name."

Dean cleared his throat, closing his eyes as he mentally shook his wandering thoughts into place. He forced his lips to twist into something remotely resembling a teasing smile, "You're a Jimmy?"

Suddenly the tension in the air thickened, and for a long moment Castiel did little but stare at him as a sadness slowly crept into his gaze, darkening the color, then he was once again looking out the window. The words that finally came were a mere decibel above a whisper, "Jimmy died a long time ago."

A quiet pain unfolded around Castiel and Dean felt hesitant to press him for further conversation. "So it's true," He leaned forward enough to snag the flask left next to Castiel's thigh. "The whole thing about angel's taking on another name. The brand part of it too?"

Castiel didn't answer him, not even a nod, just slid cerulean eyes to the corners to quietly regard him while exhaling another draw of smoke. Almost felt like the bastard was doing it on purpose, as if he had noticed Dean's acute attention on the act. Dean cleared his throat, figuring it was something of an obvious answer anyway, and went for a different one. "It hurt?"

"A lot." There was a small lift of an amused smile on Castiel's lips.

Dean licked the corner of his own lips in response, then quickly lifted the flask to quench a sudden thirst. "So why do it? The name, the branding, the whole angel thing."

Ashes were tapped out the window, Castiel lightly shrugged one shoulder. "We all have our different reasons. Why do you hunt what you do?"

Instantly Dean felt defensive, his shoulders rising in a bristle. He held his breathe for a couple heart beats before he let it out, slow, and his muscles relaxed one by one. He twirled the flask contemplatively between his hands. He understood what Castiel meant by the question. No answer was necessary, because what Castiel was saying was that he knew why the Winchesters hunted. They had lost someone to a monster. Castiel knew, without having to ask. Knew because he recognized the loss and desire for justice, and it was familiar to Castiel.

Dean wondered why he had never seen it in Castiel before now.

"We lost our mother to a demon when we were younger," Dean quietly offered, the words foreign on his tongue. Sam used to ask about her when they were younger, but Dean would never say much about her. No one ever did. Not Bobby, not Ellen, not even their own father. Dean had never mentioned her to anyone outside their small cluster of what was referred to as family. "Our dad started hunting, taught us as we grew up, then we lost him too."

Castiel hummed softly while slowly running the back of thumb back and forth across his lower lip. He appeared thoughtful, and Dean felt a nervous flutter in his stomach. He'd just told something to Castiel he had never told anyone else and all the angel had as a response was a ruminating hum.

Dean tracked the progress of Castiel's thumb before drinking once more from the flask. He rolled the taste around on his tongue, the bitterness having faded to leave behind the sweet taste of what might be a mix in of honey. Dean tilted the flask, once again peering into the darkness in silent wondering of the contents. When Castiel gave another hum, this one shorter and on the brink of sounding amused, Dean's stomach gave another flutter and he snapped his gaze back onto the angel's face, "What? Is there something funny about my parents being murdered?"

"Not at all," Castiel calmly replied. Another flick of ash out the window. "It just makes more sense now, for when you said that everyone leaves."

Dean felt his stomach drop, "When did I say that?"

Another pass of silence where Dean had little but the blue of Castiel's eyes, and the smoke curling away from his lips, to draw his focus. His gaze continued to stray toward the latter much to his chagrin. The taste of honey lingered, and all at once Dean remembered his drunken nightmare. Only it hadn't been a nightmare, Castiel really had been there last night - responding to angry, slurred cries Dean had been directed at the sky; toward heaven - asking for an angel. He remembered everything all at once, ending with him begging; vowing to eat the honey if Castiel would stay and not leave, because everybody always left.

Dean swallowed, "You left."

"I shouldn't have come to you from the start," Castiel shucked the rest of his smoke out the window before closing it. "You just were being very _loud_, also you were saying my name and that could bring the wrong kind of attention this close to Dodge City."

"What kind of trouble, Cas." Dean spoke stiffly.

The angel's eyes began to stray to the side and Dean _knew_ it meant that Castiel wasn't going to tell him the truth. Suddenly he was on his feet, fisting Castiel's tie while leaning over him. He pulled the silken rope tight so the angel was forced to sit upright to avoid being choked. Castile's exhale came out quick and Dean could smell the tobacco had been sweet, flavorful. The hunter growled down at the ex-bartender. "Stop lying to me. I already know the important parts, so you might as well tell me the rest."

Castiel's eyes narrowed, but he did nothing to remove his person from Dean's demanding grasp, "When I first met you, I thought you were sent by Michael. You said Anna had the voice of an _angel_, and I –"

"–She's an angel?" Dean had a bad habit of interrupting a person's story when a piece of information caught him like a sucker punch to the gut.

Castiel's jaw tightened, but after a moment he lowly growled, "Yes."

"Anna doesn't sound like an Angel's name."

"It was her name before she became one," Castiel sounded annoyed.

"Sorry," It came out more mocking than apologetic, "I just can't imagine someone like her joining this cult of yours."

Castiel's countenance darkened and his voice once again growled, "We all have our reasons."

"What," Dean snorted as his finger hooked more firmly around the knot of Castiel's tie. "She wanted to show everyone that she can shoot just as well as a man?"

It surprised him, as it always did, because Castiel always leaned on the side of submissive. The man had just sat there, compliant under Dean's aggression, but it quickly became apparent that Castiel sat unresponsively because he wasn't intimidated by Dean's physical threats. Castiel stood and slammed Dean against the window and wall of the train, hands fisted in Dean's shirt while the hunter stubbornly kept a grip on the angel's tie.

"Anna had a wonderful, loving family. A father, a mother, but her father died when she was a child. Their land, their house, everything they owned was taken from them. They told her mother that a woman had no right to own such things. Her mother was forced to working in a pillow house. She would never allow her daughter into that kind of life, she did it to keep her daughter pure. But the men saw her no differently, she was daughter of a whore and that's what she was to them. Just another whore. Two men caught her on the way home and when she refused to _service_ them, they beat her, they dragged her into the alley where they held her down and took turns raping her. When she reported the crime to the sheriff, nothing was ever done, because she was just a _whore_."

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but Castiel shoved him against the wall a second time.

"Balthazar,"

The hunter's eyes widened in surprise.

"He never had a mother, she died giving birth to him. He was raised by his father, then one day, when he was just a boy, he watched as some gunslingers threw a rope around his father's neck and dragged him to death by horse. All because they didn't like the way his father had looked at them. Those men were never pursued, because the people were too afraid to make trouble with the gang they were part of. So tell me, Dean, are their reasons something that _amuses_ you? Do they have less of a reason to want justice than you do for the death of your mother and father? Do you think _you_ are the only one that has suffered the pain of a loss?"

Dean could do little but stare at the blue eyes burning into him. His fingers had long ago slipped away from Castiel's tie and now hung limply at his sides. He never would have guessed that Anna had lived a trouble life. Her smile had been so confident, so beautiful, and only now Dean realized that it had been a mask; a mask more perfected than his own. Balthazar, and Dean doubted that was the man's real name, it was a second name much like Castiel's, but the trader's cocky attitude made more sense. He hadn't balked in the slightest when a gun was being pointed at him - and the way he had spoken to Castiel. It made sense. The way Anna had become evasive at the mention of Balthazar's name, the familiarity the trader had for Castiel. The three of them had been close because of a shared loss and a desire for retribution; because they were angels.

"What about you?" Dean question came after delayed moment of thought. Yet when Castiel began to withdraw, his blue eyes once shying away, Dean growled. "You can tell everyone else's story, but not your own. You don't even have the right to –"

"They're dead, Dean." Castiel's glared back at him, the muscle in his jaw jumping with repressed ire. "They cannot speak for themselves, and you have no right to talk poorly of them. You did not know them. They were my _friends_, and I will not have you _mock_ them right in front of me."

Dean once again found himself at a loss for words. He hadn't known – how could he have? Dean had only been concerned with one thing: himself. All he wanted was to get out of town and for people not to fuss over his injuries. He hadn't even paused to ask how Castiel was doing, even knowing the man's bar had burnt to the ground. Instead he had spent the first few days being irritated that Castiel was there at all. "Why didn't you say something.."

"Because it was none of your concern," Castiel's tone curled with contempt.

Inwardly Dean flinched, because those words were close enough to calling him a selfish bastard. It evoked a number of different feelings, none of which Dean wanted to acknowledge, and was entirely incapable of expressing. Dean responded in the only way he knew how, the way he was most familiar with – he became angry. "Why, because it's fucking _angel_ business?"

"I'm going to Dodge City to find the one responsible and avenge their deaths. It has nothing to do with you."

"The hell it doesn't!" Dean shoved at Castiel's chest, forcing distance between them.

"I don't want you to involve yourself," Castiel's spoke with composure, even though his dark blue eyes were roiling like a wild storm caught in the bauble of glass; angry, dark clouds twisting and flashing with sparks of heat and fury.

"And I don't want you to die!" Dean blurted, "If all the other angels are in Dodge, and for one reason or another they're pissed at you, then you're just riding in there to get gunned down. This isn't about vengeance, this is about you wanting to die and take _that_ from a guy that knows what that feels like to want all this pain, this pointless struggle to live, to just _stop_."

The storm receded from Castiel's gaze, the blue of his iris's softening to a look that Dean knew was seeing behind the mask - but this time there wasn't a mask to peer beyond. Dean had ripped it off in a rare moment of truth. His willful show of vulnerability surprised even himself, more so when he felt Castiel's fingertips graze across the dampness on his cheek. The hunter glared, spiteful and ignoring the drop of a second wet trail down the opposite cheek. He whispered, "Everyone leaves."

Castiel's thumb slid across Dean's cheek, wicking away the tear, but as much as Dean expected Castiel to close the distance like he had out under the stars, when they had laid side by side in the sea of moonlit grass, Castiel didn't draw near. "I told you–"

Having heard enough, Dean grabbed Castiel's wrist and jerked the hand away from his face. "You're not _dead_, Cas, and even if life feels like shit, aren't you suppose to at least try to smile everyday for the people that care about you, because they sure as hell don't want to watch you die."

Castiel's brow began to furrow into the familiar show of confusion and Dean gave up. Words and him? Yeah, he was never good at talking. He was a man of action, not blathering; or in this case he would deem it blubbering. There was no way he was going to be able to explain it to Castiel when he could barely rationalize it to himself. Thus where words failed him as they always did, Dean chose to act in hopes of making himself more clear.

Clasping his hands along either side of Castiel's face, Dean let his fingers inch toward the back of neck as he pulled the smaller man back to him and claimed his lips with a rough, closed mouth kiss. It was just a point he wanted to make. _He_ cared. It was an awkward kiss with Castiel's too stunned to return it, and Dean could feel the sharp prick of scruff against his chin and the edges of his lips. Dean also was sober, and it wasn't dark enough for him to ignore what he was doing. It was all so _different_.

Then Castiel's lips opened up to him and it didn't matter.

Dean let out a shaky breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He slid his fingers into Castiel's dark hair, mussing it further. It was softer than he expected. He expected the man's hair to be coarse and for his lips to be soft. Instead Castiel's lips were rough, somewhat chapped, and his mouth tasted like the sweet tobacco he'd been smoking earlier. Dean wondered if Castiel could taste the honey'd liquor on his tongue.

Whatever the taste may have been, Castiel liked it. Dean could tell by the way the man's teeth lightly closed around his lower lip, applying pressure enough to be felt but not break the skin. It was a tug, a hunger, but one that was well controlled in comparison to the feral way Dean tried to devour the smaller man through the means of a kiss. Castiel remained patient, slowing Dean's ministrations by not allowing the moment to escalate. It made Dean feel like a virgin all over again; over-eager and clumsy.

Dean let his eyes fall to a close and surrendered to what Castiel was wordlessly trying to show him. He concentrated on the languid motions of lips, teeth, and tongue; responding to them in kind as if this were a dance and Castiel was leading. It wasn't easy to relinquish control. It wasn't that Dean was opposed to it, but he never really had the option to let someone else take the reins. People always expected him to be the leader, always in control, never showing a moment of weakness. The pressure to be that guy was... crushing.

Castiel was a moment of peace, of freedom, and Dean gave in to what the angel was showing him - was giving him. A moment, a single moment to savor and not rush through it. Life was made up of these small moments, it was what made life worthwhile.

Dean's chest tightened painfully. His fingers curled against the back of Castiel's head as he pulled the angel closer still. He reluctantly broke the kiss, his eyes still closed and simply pressed his forehead to Castiel's. Why would Castiel give him something like this, to make him feel alive, but still be — "I don't want you to die, Cas."

"I have–"

Dean slid his thumbs over Castiel's lips, stilling the angel's attempt at speech. He brushed the pad of his thumbs over the top curve of Castiel's lip. His palms smoothed the coarse stubble along Castiel's jaw. Dean let his eyes slit open, the barest of green gazing through dark lashes to take in the blue orbs transfixed on him. "I know. You're going to do what you have to do. Just.. think about it - about _this_."

His heart was racing, slowly picking up in speed because he wasn't sure what _this_ entailed. The way he held Castiel close, the painful flutter in his chest that wrapped around an otherwise good feeling, the fact that he didn't want to let go of Castiel because he knew as soon as he did, he would want to escape. As long as he was close to Castiel, he could ignore everything else.

But he couldn't stay there forever.

* * *

_**A/N: **__I wanted to write more, but give an inch, they take a mile. I had to put a stop to it as it edged over 7k words. It's almost amusing, because I find it difficult to write when Dean and Castiel first meet with each other. It's awkward, it's quiet, and then suddenly the ball is rolling and showing no signs of stopping. It's like the very train they are on. It's slow and bumpy at the start, but once it gets going it's a nearly unstoppable force. Anyway, since there are no planes in this era, I thought trains fit the bill well enough for Dean's fear of flying ;3_

_Let's see, we're missing one rebelled Angel (minus Lucifer), aren't we? Hint, hint.._

_Next stop, Dodge City._


	17. God's Own Medicine

**Chapter Seventeen: **God's Own Medicine**  
By: **Zavijah

Castiel was conflicted.

The land slipped away past the window, a blur of rugged frontier spotted with wind-fearing shrubs and trees. At one point Castiel saw a herd of antelope bounding alongside the train before they broke away. Time had become an almost visible thing as the quiet persisted and world outside whisked by while he sat idle. Beyond the dingy glass the world passed at an alarming rate, but within the small compartment with cushioned seats, time had slowed almost to a near stop.

Dean sat beside him, torqued, and leaning against him with arms wrapped around his smaller frame and fists curled in his vest and shirt. It would leave the material rumpled, but Castiel couldn't find it in his heart to complain about the state of his clothes or the fact that Dean's weight pressed him against the corner of the seat in what was growing to be a very uncomfortable position. Although they were fully clothed, the arrangement between them was more intimate than was proper between friends.

The hunter's head was nestled against his shoulder and neck and every now and then Castiel would allow himself the simple pleasure of running his fingers through the man's honey colored hair. The angel didn't view their close proximity as intimacy, Dean was not holding him - he was _clinging_ to him like a man caught in sinking sand. Castiel had become the solid rock to Dean's desperate grasping. The man was too proud to lean on his younger brother for help, and Castiel had unwittingly stepped in to become the brace Dean needed to keep from crumbling.

The constant rocking of the train had helped to lull the emotionally burdened hunter into a peaceful slumber. Castiel's presence and warmth had played a factor, but the main reason Dean was currently lightly snoring against the side of Castiel's neck was because of the drink. Castiel glanced at the empty flask in his hands. He should have monitored Dean's intake, but the man drank like a fish caught on dry land. It was gulped down, heedlessly, and the effects took place just as quick.

In hindsight, Castiel had only meant to calm Dean's nerves brought on by the train. He never imagined Dean would relax to the point of letting his emotions run rampant; to kiss him. Dean was just confused, Castiel reminded himself, because as he observed before, Dean was holding on to him like he would a rock amidst the rapids of a swollen river. Yet the opiates in the drink had robbed Dean of the grief, the anger, and most of all the pain captured in memories. He would sleep numbed but blissful in a medicated peace.

Although it left Castiel dry, save for one small swig that left the flask truly empty.

Balthazar had introduced him to the concoction, a mere cough syrup, when Castiel had been a dead man too burdened by the blood of empty vengeance staining his hands and the lingering loss of his family. He'd been waiting for death, instead he was given a hand up, a purpose, and a means to cope. His feet had been set on a new path, with angels, and he had done it because he wanted to do what he could to prevent others from feeling the same pain. He wanted to protect people; their lives and their innocence. To do so he had to further bathe his hands in blood.

And all the while he sipped from his flask, numbing the constant ache in his heart.

Dean stirred when the train jostled over a rough part of the track. Castiel adjusted himself to better pillow the man's leaning weight, once again reaching up to card fingers through the other man's hair. He wanted for all the world to concentrate on that single sensation and not the long suppressed memories slowly gaining hold on his mind. Images of the pale, cold hands of his wife and daughter clasped in his own as he screamed at sky – at God himself - why. _Why_. Castiel's chest constricted painfully as his heart fluttered. It was hard for him not to reflect on the life he had before the angels. He closed his eyes and let his head lull against the back of the seat.

_'James._

_That was my name.'_

* * *

_"Jimmy!"_

_He smiled, wide and relieved, and threw his arms open as Amelia all but tackled him on the spot. She probably would have if not for the bump she was sprouting. He'd been gone so long, and even though he had gotten her letter telling him about the good news, James hadn't believed it true until his hand settled on her rounded abdomen. She was pregnant - they were going to have a child. A warmth spread through James's chest and his eyes stung. The promise of life, of a future, was so beautiful after spending endless weeks on the frontline. It was the most wonderful thing to see, and feel, after being surrounded by so much sorrow and death._

_James kissed Amelia; lips, cheeks, nose, whatever he could reach as he hugged her tightly to him. "I've missed you so much."_

_"Jimmy, stop tearing up, you're going to make me start."_

_He merely chuckled, the sound a low rumbled in his chest. He wouldn't call her on it, but he could tell a few tears had escaped her judging by the damp feeling against his neck. James gave her one last squeeze before drawing away, "When did the doctor say you were due?"_

_"A couple months still," She hooked her arms around his neck, lazily swinging in his arms as if they were in a dance._

_"Oh," James frowned, his blue eyes darting away to try and spare Amelia of the disappointment._

_She must have seen, because his wife sudden went still in his arms, her expression tightening. "You're leaving again."_

_"Not by choice" His frown deepened. "I'm not even suppose to be here."_

_"No," Her head began to shake. "No!" She struck weakly at his chest covered by the navy-blue uniform. "Tell those bastards I need my husband here with me!"_

_"Lia, please, I'm sorry."_

* * *

_I'm sorry._

The train whistle shrilled, jerking Castiel out of the past. He blinked owlishly at the compartment, letting his mind settle into the reality of the present. He lifted his arm to rub at his face only to find it trapped under Dean's weight. Castiel eased himself out from under the hunter. A quick glance outside revealed a platform full of passengers unloading and those waiting to board. Dodge City. They had arrived.

They..

Castiel glanced back at Dean – who continued to snore.

There could be no _they_ as much as Castiel might have liked to pursue it. Linking himself to Dean would only put the hunter at risk; put a target on his back. Castiel had enough blood on his hands. He wouldn't be able to bear it if he got the man killed by association alone. So it was with a heavy heart he pulled his travel bag from the shelf and stepped off the train without so much as a note. Dean would be angry, no doubt, and maybe he would be angry enough to want nothing to do with Castiel.

It was a strange thing to hope for and it left a sickly, tar-like sensation sinking through his chest.

Castiel willed his feet into motion, threw his pack over his shoulder and steered himself toward the main throng without a backwards glance. Although Castiel had been absence from Dodge for a good few years, the city had remained a constant bustle. It had grown in both buildings and people. Castiel scanned the faces in a mixture of eagerness and apprehension. He'd left behind more enemies than he did friends and Castiel wasn't sure if the passage of time had faded the memory of him from their minds.

First thing on his agenda, before he started in on his manhunt, was to find decent room and board. He remembered a nice place near the center of town that he'd liked. It would provide a nice view of the busy street below and Castiel may just get lucky in finding his man before the next sun set. The less time he spent in Dodge, the better it would be for his health.

"Need some sugar, handsome?"

Castiel found his path cut off by a short, doe-eyed women with dark hair pulled away from her pale features contrasted by ruby lips. Those very lips curved into a seductive smile as she ran fingers along the fringe of her revealing bodice before twirling those same fingers around a loose curl of her dark brown hair.

"Maybe some chocolate or.." The girl sashayed around him, edging into his personal space to corral him toward the boardwalk. "You look like a caramel kind of man."

Castiel retreated another step, confused, because he was certain this part of town wasn't of the red light district. Aside from that, her attempt at a siren's call was peculiar. Her clothes, too, while lifting up her bust for the viewer's advantage. It was far too constraining with the bodice to be compared to the loose garments of a lady of the line. Castiel took his eyes away from her to double-check his where abouts – only to have his tie seized and jerked downward so his gaze was once again on the crass woman.

"How about some _hand pulled_ taffy, mm?"

"Meg, let the poor man go."

Castiel, who was seriously beginning to worry for the sake of his loins, silently thanked the lord for the interruption. He swallowed, thickly, and shifted his blue gaze to the woman who had stepped in as his savior. She was blonde, petite, and with pale pink lips that Castiel found pretty on the young woman. She was dressed up in the same garb as her darker companion, but she was holding a server's tray filled with small, hand wrapped parcels.

The blonde frowned at the woman called Meg, "We're just suppose to hand out samples."

"Well I'm bored and decided to change it up a bit."

"Come on, I just want to do the job and get paid."

"Sweet pea," Meg mocked with a curious lisp to her words, "If you want to get paid around here, you've got to know how to handle men, and tucking candies into their palm isn't the touch they want."

The blonde snorted, "Yeah, because he looks thrilled to be near you."

Meg's attention swung back onto Castiel, smirking as she kept a grip on his tie, "Some men need to be shown what they want. What do you say, blue eyes, how about you and me get ourselves room and I give you taste of the sweetest candy a man could ever know."

Castiel scissored his fingers around his tie and forcibly slid it from the brunette's grasp. "I must decline your offer on the grounds that I neither have the time nor interest."

Meg's expression curdled, the blonde hooted with laughter, and Castiel scowled as he tried to smooth his tie back into his vest. Meg snorted, lightly shoving Castiel aside, "Come back and see me when you find your cock."

"_Meg!_" The blonde hissed.

"Oh horse piss," Meg smacked the tray the blonde held, scattering the wrapped goods everywhere. "I'm done with this shit job."

Castiel stared after the brunette as she proudly stalked away. The blonde glared, for half a second, then carefully bent to try and pick up the scattered wrappers. Her lips were drawn tight, but Castiel caught the slight glimmer of moisture in her eyes and his heart yielded. He carefully knelt next to her and quietly helped her gather up the... he turned the small wax paper over, noticing for the first time that it was candy. Carmels, chocolates, taffy – well that explained Meg's unusual sales pitch.

"Thank you," the blonde said softly as she rested the tray against her bent knees. She ran the back of knuckle under her eyes before she put on her best smile. It was a sweet smile. "Here, take one, or a few."

"No, I don't.. " Castiel turned his head to glance at the woman, but his gaze hinged on an odd series of nicks on the wood of the shop behind the blonde. He almost missed it, then again almost mistook it for a child's mischief, but once his eyes settled fully on the marks, he recognized the symbols.

"Don't be silly. Take some."

Castiel snapped his gaze onto the woman, studied her for a long moment, but no, he was sure she didn't know anything about the markings etched into the store. He slowly rose to his feet, the woman following suit and thrusting the tray at him. Grieved to upset the woman, Castiel lowered his eyes to flicker over the bits of wax paper before taking a single caramel. He gave her an awkward half-smile, to which she smirked at in response before bobbing away to catch the next person.

The angel turned his attention back to the markings, certain now that he knew what they were. This was a building marked for protection - angel protection. But _this?_ Inside the windows were displays of candy, and the golden paint on the glass read _The Tricks of Treats_. A candy store. Castiel curled his finger around the candy and stepped inside the small shop.

The small bell over the door announced Castiel's entrance, drawing the attention of the short man on the ladder. He was busy pushing a jar of green hard candies back onto the top shelf. He wore a red and white pin stripped shirt with a black bow tie and garter. He briefly glanced over his shoulder at Castiel.

"Ah," The man mused playfully, "I see my lovely pair of vixens have lured another customer into my lair of sweets. What can I do you for?"

There was a familiarity about the man, a gnawing at the edge of Castiel's thoughts that said he knew him. Castiel's head tilted as he struggled to draw forth a name to the man's face.

"Your mother ever tell you it's not polite to stare?" The man hopped off the last step of the later, twirled and planted his arms against the polished countertop. His eyes crinkled in such a way, with such obvious amusement, that it reminded Castiel of Balthazar. People always seemed to find him amusing, but for what reason Castiel didn't know. For a long time, Castiel merely assumed he looked funny. Balthazar had later explained it was something about the way he reacted. The term clueless had been tossed around, but Castiel didn't agree.

"I guess not," The candy man drummed his fingers against the wood. "So what will it be, a little something to sate the sweet tooth? A few chocolates for the lucky lady, mm?"

It was the suggestive waggle of eyebrows that finally made it click, "You're Gabriel, the trick shooter."

"Mm, nope. The name's Richard, owner of Tricks of Treats, connoisseur of women both sweet and tart. Care to try some of my newest creation?" The small man ducked beneath the counter, drawing forth a container of wrapped red suckers. "I call these babies _señoritas feugas_. They're inspired by a certain lovely lady I've gotten to know _very_ well."

Judging by the wink directed his way, Castiel was certain there was a fair amount of innuendo being expressed. He held back on a sigh and merely frowned in response. It was not a conversation he cared to continue. "I'm not interested in your wares."

"Hn, suit yourself." Richard removed a sucker for himself, popping it into his mouth. He returned Castiel's relentless stare a few seconds before pulling the sucker out with a wet smack of lips. "Y'know if you're not going to buy something, you might as well leave. Otherwise you're going to scare the children."

Another frown, "I'm looking for a man and–"

"And I'm looking for potential customers."

"Gabri–"

"Paying customers."

"I thought you would–"

"–be interested in making money? Always."

Castiel's jaw grit with irritation, yet all the same a sliver of confusion passed through his dark blue eyes. It had been a few years, perhaps he was mistaking this man for another. That or didn't remember the details clearly. Gabriel, the Gabriel he had known more by reputation more than any personal interaction, had left before he, Anna, and Balthazar had parted ways with the Angels. It was always assumed Gabriel left town, but to find him right here in the smack middle of the whole conflict with angel markings outside the window of his shop raised questions.

As Castiel reached into his jacket, Gabriel smirked. What Castiel retrieved and set on the counter, however, was not money. A single glossy feather was left between the two former angels. It was the same one Castiel had found wedged upright on the floor planks outside his charred saloon. Gabriel's eyes locked on the feather while Castiel closely watched the man's features, "You know what this means."

"Are you threatening me?"

Castiel's brow furrowed with confusion, "No."

"Then who died?"

"Anna," Castiel's memory flashed on the burned corpses left in the saloon. Instantly guilt began to weigh on his very soul. He had left her, alone, while he gave his unwanted help to Dean. When he had first left the bar, he had seen a vaguely familiar face. It was only a glimpse, but his mind had told him that it couldn't be - it just couldn't be. The horses outside too, there was one, black as night, that had also struck at a familiar cord. He shouldn't have left. Castiel pushed the remorse down, deep down along with the rest of the emotions warring to rise. It left him blank in expression - callous. "And Balthazar."

"Na-uh," Gabriel flicked the feather toward Castiel as if it was an offending mote of dust. "Saw him just yesterday."

Castiel's eyes widened, his heart giving a small, hopeful flutter.

"Swings through every other week, in fact. He's a little early this time."

And Castiel's heart quickly tripped over itself and came to a brief halt. _What_. Balthazar hadn't told him about any trips to Dodge. Of course, Balthazar hadn't told him about a lot of things. Always left it in the dark until Castiel accidentally stumbled over the secret. Balthazar left, with him, and that would have meant his face would not have been welcome in Dodge City, or anywhere near the territories Michael claimed. How could he – what business did he have here to keep returning?

Castiel picked up the raven feather, "You're certain?"

"Does this look like a face that would lie to you?"

Blue eyes narrowed.

Gabriel snorted, "Alright, bad wording. Fine. I swear to _God–_" He threw up his hands toward the rafters, tilting his head back as he vowed. "That I saw him yesterday, and if I am lying, let the lord almighty strike me down where I stand." The shorter man pirouetted on the spot before dropping his arms back to the counter, "So are you going to buy something?"

"Where's Raphael?"

The other angel's head dropped forward in a dramatic show of exasperation. "Look, I don't know why you're here. I don't want to know so don't even start. What I do know is that whatever it is, I don't want part in it. I've got a nice thing going on here and the last thing I want is to spoil it. So whatever _business_ you're here for, I'm not part of it."

"But the markings outside.."

"Nice touch, right?" Gabriel lifted his head, a smile spreading from one ear to the other. "Hidden right under their noses. Now, if you don't mind, 'cause you are the least subtle guy I ever had the misfortune of meeting. Leave, and don't ever come back into my store."

Fair enough, Castiel decided as he tucked the feather back into his pocket. He made for the door, his hand settled on the brass knob when Gabriel's voice sounded.

"If you're looking for a place to stay, I highly suggest the _House of Mirrors_ downtown."

The wink Gabriel used to conclude the suggestion should have been warning enough for Castiel. Instead he gave the former angel the benefit of the doubt and decided to check it out. He should have known better. Of course what Gabriel suggested to him turned out to be a brothel. Castiel barely escaped the front room with his clothes intact. He honestly didn't understand why people got such a kick out of making him feel so obviously uncomfortable. The cackles of the _whores _still rang in his ears as he briskly made his way back uptown, straightening his tie the whole way. He bought the first room and board that was available that also offered warm water for a bath.

Castiel took his time disrobing himself, carefully folding his garments and setting them neatly on the wooden chair set near the copper tub. The water was tepid at best, but it was a blessed change compared to a splashing himself with the cold water of a river. The warm bath was a small luxury he would allow himself, because how he saw things.. his days were beginning to dwindle in number.

Freshly laundered clothes, a cleansing bath, perhaps he would indulge in a getting a haircut.

Strange thoughts.

Castiel tried to not to dwell on them as he eased himself into the copper tub. The warmth wrapped him like a comforting blanket and his troubling storm cloud brooding over him dissipated. Castiel allowed himself a contented noise and sank further into the water. His eyes slid to a close, but before his mind could wander, he heard the door creak open. A slow, deliberate sound as the person was in neither in a rush to enter, or trying to be quiet to escape notice.

The distinct sound of boots crossing the aged wooden floor boards alerted Castiel that it was a man entering the room and not one of the women restocking the towels. Castiel's eyes slit open as his thoughts darted to Dean. The possibility of the hunter having followed him there made his heart begin to race with anticipation. His tongue slid over his lower lip, recalling the taste of the man's lips against his own only a few hours earlier. He would have been a liar if he tried to claim he didn't want another taste. Castiel sat up in the tub, laying his arms against the smooth edges as he turned to greet his visitor.

The faint smile that had been hinting at the corner of Castiel's lips instantly dropped as his dark blue eyes met with a paler pair. Castiel felt his body grow cold despite the warm water and goose bumps rose along his arms as his voice came out in a single whisper.

"Lucifer."

* * *

_**A/N:**__ A little fact, medicine back in the day - you know those miracle cures and amazing cough syrups? Drugs. Opium, morphine, heroine. What Castiel drinks is a laudanum (opium in alcohol solution mixed with a few sweet herbs and some honey). And with that information I want you to think back on Castiel's chapters, then read the following quotes about opium._

_**-**__"Whereas wine disorders the mental faculties, opium introduces amongst them the most exquisite order, legislation and harmony. Wine robs a man of self-possession; opium greatly invigorates it...Wine constantly leads a man to the brink of absurdity and extravagance; and, beyond a certain point, it is sure to volatilize and disperse the intellectual energies; whereas opium seems to compose what has been agitated, and to concentrate what had been distracted. ...A man who is inebriated...is often...brutal; but the opium eater...feels that the diviner part of his nature is paramount; that is, the moral affections are in a state of cloudless serenity; and over all is the great light of majestic intellect..."_

_**- **__"...cause a feeling of delicious ease and comfort, with an elevation of the whole moral and intellectual nature...There is not the same uncontrollable excitement as from alcohol, but an exaltation of our better mental qualities, a warmer glow of benevolence, a disposition to do great things, but nobly and beneficently, a higher devotional spirit, and withal a stronger self-reliance, and consciousness of power. Nor is this consciousness altogether mistaken. For the intellectual and imaginative faculties are raised to the highest point compatible with individual capacity...Opium seems to make the individual, for a time, a better and greater man..."_

_**- **__I__ndeed opium was probably the world's first authentic antidepressant. Unlike other pain-relieving agents such as ethyl alcohol, ether or the barbiturates, opium doesn't impair sensory perception, the intellect or motor co-ordination. Pain ceases to be threatening, intrusive and distressing; but it can still be sensed and avoided. At lower dosages, opium may be pleasantly stimulating rather than soporific._

_**P.S. **__Kudos to the readers that noted that no, I did not specified who died in the fire. I'm certain we'll be seeing Balthazar again, along with others (Meg, you were rather fun to write even if I don't like you. Gabriel, your time was brief, but I'm sure you'll be back to stir up trouble). There are so many characters to play with and it becomes tempting to shove them into each chapter instead of doing it gradually and individually._

_Also, I like slipping characters into the background to see if anyone notices. Such as the girl that was on the train in the previous chapter, and now the nameless blonde handing out candies with Meg. Also, how could anyone forget that Jimmy Novak had a wife and daughter before he said yes to Castiel. Tsk!_


	18. Right, Wrong, and the Miles in Between

**Chapter Eighteen: **Right, Wrong, and the Miles in Between**  
By: **Zavijah

"You have me at a disadvantage."

Castiel drew his arms inward and submerged them. The water only came up to the middle of his biceps and Castiel felt as if he had been caught with his robe falling away from his shoulders but couldn't seem to pull up the material to hide himself from the other man's gaze. The vulnerable feeling was made worse by the casual way Lucifer neared the tub. Castiel couldn't keep himself from staring up at the man that had assumed the name of the arch angel that had become the warden of hell. Lucifer was something of a legend, as was his brother Michael, and Castiel had never been an angel important enough to garner attention from either man.

"I don't yet recall your name, but your face is familiar." Lucifer's tone was smooth, relaxed with just a hint of playfulness beneath the words. As he rounded the tub, Lucifer deliberately drew a finger across the wing brand marking the back of Castiel's shoulders. "My suspicions were confirmed when I noticed you taking an interest in a certain series of markings."

Lucifer continued on, passing along the side of the copper tub to approach the nearby chair. Castiel's clothes were carefully moved. The pants were folded over the back of the chair while the shirt was snapped opened to be draped over the wooden shoulders. Castiel's eyes flicked to the gun still holster on his belt that was also set on the chair. It was no mistake, even if was the only chair near the tub, that Lucifer positioned himself in such a way to become a barrier between Castiel and the side arm.

The man sat, a creature of languid grace, at once in a relaxed position much like a content feline. It was one of the few little things that reminded Castiel of Balthazar. The two men were eerily similar at times - pale blue eyes, faded blonde hair, each inherent to a grace reminiscent of a prowling feline, and most of all the gift of tongue. The tone polite, the words honey, and the smiles easy and alluring. There had been moments in the past when Castiel had wondered if the two were related.

Yet within the similarities there were contrasts. Lucifer's tongue was gilded in silver where Balthazar's was sharply edged. And where Balthazar better resembled an eloquent lap cat, the man seated before Castiel was more like a large feline, a tiger; powerful and dangerous. His claws would not give a nuisance scratch, they would gut Castiel if displeased. It was best to keep such a deadly predator in a placid state of mind. Not that Castiel could pose much of a threat, caught in such a vulnerable state and out of reach of his only defense.

Castiel held onto the only thing still within his control - his silence.

His gaze lingered on his captor, shifting aside to take in the series of scars marring Lucifer's face from the top of his left brow and down the side of his features to end around the curve of his jaw. As if sensing Castiel's wandering eyes, Lucifer lifted a hand to lightly draw fingertips along the marks. "Yes, that's right, you left before all this happened."

Castiel couldn't stop the curious furrow that formed along his own brow.

In return, Lucifer's eyes twinkled with amusement, mirrored along by the quirk at the corner of his lips. "A lot has changed over the years. But you don't know, do you."

It was more statement than question, but with the way Lucifer's head canted to the side as if finding Castiel a puzzling specimen, the water-logged angel felt pressured to confirm his ignorance on the current state of affairs. His voice came out raspy, as if he hadn't spoken in ages, "It has been several years since my departure."

Lucifer hummed thoughtfully as his pale eyes strayed to lazily examine the room. Castiel watched him, transfixed and curious, and when the man's gaze once again met his, Lucifer smiled. Beneath the water, Castiel nervously curled his fingers into his palms.

"I guess.. " There was something musical about Lucifer's voice; an effortless cadence of words that barely rose above a whisper yet held so much power. "You could say that Michael and I had something of a falling out." He tapped fingers against the burn-like scars for emphasis. "A difference in opinion and... well, you know my brother. He can be a bit bull-headed."

When Lucifer smiled, Castiel couldn't tell if it was out of amusement or annoyance.

"He gets that from our father."

The conversation was harmless enough, but Castiel couldn't ease the tension from his shoulders, or advert the wary gaze he tirelessly kept on the scarred angel. It would have been easy to fall into the man's charm - into those blue eyes that welcomingly regarded him. There, in the eyes, Castiel saw another difference between Balthazar and Lucifer. While both men had eyes that were pale in color, Balthazar's gaze was always warded; secretive and distant. Lucifer, there was something cold there that could pin a man a thousand yards away, but at the same time there was no mask. Lucifer's gaze was open, bearing no sign of ruse, but Castiel felt that if he trusted himself to those eyes, he would fall in and become forever trapped.

Castiel finally broke his stare, instead fixating his rapt attention on the small scrub brush he soon took with one hand and began to lather with the soap in the other hand. Anything to distract himself from gravity-like pull he felt in Lucifer's stare. He wasn't an easy man to ignore, less so when he leaned forward on elbows propped over knees. Castiel found himself stealing glances up at Lucifer's face - adverting his line of sight to the scars instead of locking with the man's pale eyes.

Lucifer's fingers were steepled and partially covering his mouth as he silently contemplated what he was going to do with the wayward angel before him. "What this ultimately means for you, is that the angels have chosen sides and you are either a man for Michael." Lucifer paused with a knowing smile. "Or me. I don't expect you to–"

"Neither," Castiel interrupted with a firm narrow of eyes. "I am no one's man."

Again Lucifer's head canted to the side, "Typically a man in your position would feebly swear loyalty to me."

Castiel knew his words had been on the side of foolish. He didn't doubt that most men would quickly claim loyalty to Lucifer in self preservation. Lucifer could kill him right then and there, as easy as shooting fish in a barrel. Yet Castiel didn't want to yield to the invisible push he felt on his shoulder, his spine was stronger than that. There had been a period of time in Castiel's life where he had been dutiful - had followed every order issued his way without question. What he earned in return was a life hollowed out and shelled in anguish.

His very soul was forever fractured.

"Because most men are dishonest," Lucifer continued when Castiel lapsed into silence, "when backed against an edge but most of all they are afraid. You, however, you are not without fear, but it isn't of death, is it."

Castiel said nothing, instead turning his attention to the coarse haired brush he began to use to wash the layers of road dust from his arm and shoulder. If it was disrespectful of him to not give Lucifer his full attention, Castiel was unaware. He couldn't continue to look Lucifer in the eyes because it felt like the man could read every little secret he had written and stashed in the far corners of his mind that even he forgot the small truths.

"But as I was saying, I don't expect you to pick a side right this moment. It would be unwise to toss in your chips without first knowing the game that is being played. Although," Here Lucifer clucked his tongue before his voice lowered, becoming softer but all that much more patronizing because of the change. "Silly words disclose a fool."

The scrubbing brush stilled as Castiel mulled over the phrase, "Are you comparing me to the ass in one of Aesop's fables?"

The crooked tilt to Lucifer's amused smile was ambiguous enough to leave Castiel uncertain to the meaning. For as much as he could see the subtle workings of a person's mind, reading their inner pain and understanding where their anger was rooted. Certain turns in a phrase, or playful wording, often left him confused. Words were often far more deceptive than a masked expression.

"Perhaps," Lucifer finally confided as he further leaned forward. His arms pillowed against the edge of the tub and he set his chin on his arms. It put him in a position where his face was lower than Castiel's. It struck Castiel as curious as most men loomed to maintain their airs of dominance. Not that Lucifer needed to try to maintain his control of the situation. It came effortlessly to the man. Instead it may have more to do that by moving into better sight, Castiel could no longer avoid the man's gaze. "I might be saying that you've already shown yourself to be a fool."

Castiel's jaw worked as he bit on the end of his tongue to keep from replying.

"Don't fret," Lucifer's smile did little to comfort him. "I don't make a habit of killing my brethren. Besides, it's not that far of a leap in logic to assume that Michael will not be welcoming your arrival." The smile grew and Lucifer sat up a bit straighter if only to give a whimsical twirl of his hand. "Consider this, as they say, an enemy of my enemy is my friend."

"Why is it you wage war on your brother?"

"You misinterpret me," Lucifer almost sounded wounded. "It is the other way around."

"But you fight back," Castiel acutely stated.

"Mm, yes." Lucifer's shoulders came up in an expressive shrug as his lower lip jutted in an exaggerated pout. "But he started it."

For a moment Castiel defenses dropped as he snorted at Lucifer's childish antics. At least until he remembered exactly who he was dealing with. It was just so subtle, so _easy _to fall into a false sense of security around the man. Perhaps Castiel had no reason to mistrust Lucifer. The man hadn't done anything to him. It wasn't entirely fair of Castiel to feel more trusting toward Gabriel than Lucifer, and Castiel had also trusted Balthazar time and time again when the man constantly lied to him.

Castiel began to doubt himself.

"Michael and I," Lucifer's head tilted with a solemn thoughtfulness. "We no longer agree on who deserves to live." His head tilted the other way. "And who deserves to die."

A priest might have argued that it wasn't a choice a man had the right to make, but Castiel couldn't adopt the same perspective. He had blood on his hands, and there were lives he had taken that he didn't regret. A holier man would have chosen the higher road of forgiveness, of turning the other cheek, but Castiel could never be so pure. Even if knew vengeance left nothing but an empty feeling in its wake, he couldn't sit on his hands and do nothing while the people around him suffered.

A touch to the underside of his chin startled Castiel from his thoughts. He jerked, sloshing water over the sides of the tub as his gaze zeroed in on Lucifer's searching blue eyes. "Such a thoughtful countenance, is there something you wanted to say?"

Castiel cast an uncertain glance to the upturned palm lingering near his face.

Noticing the look, Lucifer retracted his hand, threading it with his other hand while patiently regarding Castiel. "I promise not to be angry."

That he had to promise in the first place made Castiel cautious.

"No?" Something akin to boredom crossed Lucifer's features. "That's a shame."

Lucifer stood, and Castiel sank an inch further into the water. A sudden wave of distress hit him, causing his heart to race and blossom fresh pain his chest as a consequence. It was a tension that cinched more tightly in his chest that it became difficult to properly breathe. Normally, as it was far from being a new pain to him, Castiel would have closed his eyes and mentally calmed himself. Presently he kept his attention rapt on the pale eyes watching him with the same intensity. The thread of tension between them had drawn tight as soon as Lucifer rose, and Castiel found his mind rapidly trying to deduce how face he could dart forward to grab his gun, and if he would manage to get a round off before the scarred angel shot him dead in the water.

Castiel kept his breathes shallow, ignoring the burning in his lungs as his body lied to him - claimed to be unable to breathe.

Then he made a mistake, he glanced toward his gun. Lucifer followed the look, turning astride to become less of a barrier between Castiel and the gun belt. His hands settled deceptively lax against his sides. "Go ahead."

Castiel's darker eyes momentarily widened.

"If it makes you feel more comfortable."

It probably wouldn't. Castiel didn't even feel safe moving at that point in time. The pain in his chest was yielding, but it left him feeling on the side of shaky. Breathing came more easily, Castiel steeled his expression and hoped that –

"You look pale," Lucifer moved to sit on the side to the tub, forcing Castiel to slide his fingers away. As he withdrew, Lucifer neared, once again extending a palm toward Castiel's face. On instinct Castiel leaned away from the hand. This time Lucifer didn't back away. Under the weight of the pale, unyielding stare, little by little Castiel submitted. He turned his face away, allowing Lucifer to make contact. It was light, the soft press of fingertips along the side of his neck.

"Elevated pulse. Racing, weak.."

Castiel's eyes, dark with forced stoicism, slid toward Lucifer to silently regard the man from peripherals. His face soon followed the motion, guided along by the pressure of Lucifer's thumb. As he fully met those pale blue eyes, Castiel was again struck by the small similarities between Balthazar and Lucifer. Balthazar too had been a very persistent man that had not been shy when it came to physical contact. Castiel had been intimate with one of the two men, and it he found himself growing confused as this other man touched him while he sat naked in the tub.

There, of course, was a small detail that made all the difference. Lucifer didn't look at him with heat. If there was any sort of desire involved in the situation, it was for Lucifer's need for control. Compliance, and with something as so simple as a single touch to Castiel's vulnerable neck, and a gaze unwavering, he had it.

"I wasn't lying about not killing fellow angels," Lucifer closed his eyes as he gave a faint shrug. "At least without justifiable reason."

Cautiously Castiel lifted his pruned fingers from the bath water, curled them lightly around Lucifer's wrist and gently pushed the man's touch away. He had to swallow before he could manage to whisper, "I believe you."

"Then I will leave you with this piece of sage advice," Lucifer once again stood, this time pivoting toward the door. "Don't give me reason."

Castiel dipped his chin into a shallow nod to show his understanding.

He didn't move until after he heard the door shut and Lucifer's steps fade. In one smooth motion he slid completely underwater. The world didn't go silent, but it blurred and the soft twang of his knuckles against the copper tub became a sanctuary. The only anchor keeping his mind connected to reality was the dull ache in his chest. His mind flickered to the empty contents of his flask, yearning for a sip to ease the phantom that had found roost in his chest during the last years of his service for the Union. It was his own personal demon that acted dormant when Castiel had something to calm it.

When he didn't, well, it tore painfully at his chest and made it difficult to breathe. His hands would sweat and shake. Then his heart, it would stutter and jerk to the point of making him feel faint. It had triggers, and most of the time the ache was faint enough to ignore and accept as normal. It only got bad when emotions were involve, more particularly emotional pain. Such as the guilt he couldn't let go. It was why he needed the drink, the opium, he needed to it to rob him of the anguish.

Needed it to live.

Doctors had not been able to give him a definite answer to what was wrong with him. There had only been one man that Castiel had met during his wandering; an ex-soldier like himself. They had bought each other drinks and shared stories. Under the influence of several strong drinks, Castiel had professed to his sporadic chest pains. The man had smiled at him, a sad expression, and had told him he knew what he had.

He called it a Soldier's Heart.

* * *

_**A/N: **__I like Lucifer, can you tell? So much sub-text going on here. Shame on me._

_Soldier's Heart, a term for Da Costa's syndrome, which was observed during the American Civil War. If you didn't catch on in the last chapter, and now in this chapter, Castiel served as a Union Soldier; a yankee. Soldier's Heart was essentially the result of an anxiety disorder (like PTSD) that showed with physical manifestations of fatigue, shortness of breath, palpitations, sweating, and chest pains when under stress (physical or emotional). A physical exam would reveal nothing wrong. Mm, just the name of it makes my writer heart flutter with glee as I use the condition, and the opium, to create this AU Castiel._

_It explains why Castiel seems so indifferent, does it not? He literally cannot handle the stress of being emotional, so he does his best to avoid it. I get this amusing visual in my head of emotional upheaval being a speed bump and Castiel is that driver that slows down and goes over it veeeery carefully._


	19. Heartbreaker

**Chapter Nineteen: **Heartbreaker**  
By: **Zavijah

Insane.

Dean Winchester fumbled for a grip on reality to explain why he had woken up alone on the train. There was no evidence of Castiel having ever been there aside from the lingering aroma of sweet tobacco. It may have well been Dean's imagination, because he was beginning to seriously doubt if Castiel even existed. In the blink of an eye the man was gone like a mirage on the horizon. There one moment, gone the next, and Dean would have sworn up and down that it had been real.

The hunter drew a hand down his face, resting fingertips against his lower lip as his mind reflected on how it felt to kiss Castiel. How could he imagine something so elating, so real. The other question was _why_ would he hallucinate about kissing the angel. Dean wanted to cling to the notion he was going insane, otherwise he would be forced to accept the fact that Castiel had left - again. That simple fact steadily picked away at Dean's confidence.

In turn that made him angry.

Only this time the anger was subdued, like it was being contained in a glass box at the back of his mind. Despite the kaleidoscope of emotions turning, splitting and merging on the inside, Dean was still in possession of the calm he had been gifted on the train. His mind felt clear amidst chaos. He felt like he was walking through a field erupting in war, passing by untouched as soldiers fell around him, and while he took in every pained grimace and fearful gaze, he was at peace. He could feel the tall grass brushing against his legs, and smell the spring in the air beneath the burst of gunpowder and blood.

The disassociation made him feel insane.

Dean moved with the throng, letting his feet guide him because his mind was otherwise occupied. His green eyes roamed the faces, slightly widened as he strained to caught sight of the ghost he was convinced was haunting him. A specter with raven hair and cornflower blue eyes. He wanted Castiel to not be real, because the reality of being repeatedly left behind was wickedly twisting a serrated blade through his chest.

* * *

"God, my feet hurt."

Brown eyes flicked up from the mirror, a brow arching along with the look as Lisa watched the new girl flop into the seat next to her. She was blonde, and as far as Lisa had cared to listen, her named was Joanna. She didn't fit in with the rest of the showgirls and Lisa knew she wouldn't last long. Crowley had only hired her, along with a couple others, because of the upcoming tournament. He didn't want to be short on girls when his clientele arrived.

"Had to stand in these stupid shoes all day handing out candies and Meg bailed on me at the end."

Lisa hummed a note of sympathy while turning back to the mirror and resumed applying the dark plum color to her lips. She carefully pressed her lips together to smooth it out before commenting, "You shouldn't complain."

Jo lifted her head as her top lip curled in such a way it made her nose wrinkle; an expression better suited an insolent child rather than a woman. Honestly, Lisa didn't know what the girl was thinking coming to Dodge City with such high expectations. She had come, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, and had quickly found herself almost living on the streets because she wasn't willing to work certain jobs that required being little more than eye candy for men.

"I mean it," Lisa rooted around the vanity before finding the small brush she needed to start applying the kohl to her eyes. "You're lucky you even got the gig."

Jo sighed, "I just didn't think it'd all be so taxing."

"If you were willing to make some sacrifices, it wouldn't be."

"_Mommy!_"

Lisa had just enough time to move the brush away from her eye before her three year old son crashed into her leg and immediately tried to climb into her lap. She caught his arm to still his actions, "Shh, baby, mommy is busy right now. Where did your nana go?"

The boy smiled with childish pride, "Nana is sleeping."

Lisa held back on the disappointed sigh. It was hard to find anyone to watch Ben while she worked. It didn't help that her son shared the same devilish nature as he father, and there had to be wander lust in the genes because the boy would not stay put. He was constantly escaping his watchers and showed no fear about getting lost in the city.

"Benny-ben," Jo called in a sing-song voice while extending her hands out to him. "Guess what I brought back for you."

Grateful for the blonde's help, Lisa urged the boy over to her co-worker before returning to applying her makeup for the night.

"You bring me something?" The three year old ask as he climbed into Jo's lap.

"Mhm," Jo humored the child while reaching into her bodice to pull forth a piece of candy she had bilked from her earlier job. "Do you know what this is?"

Lisa patiently shook her head, holding back on the urge to tell Jo it wasn't smart to steal from her employers, nor did Ben need sugar this late at night. But it was hard to argue when she could see the ear-to-ear grin spreading across Ben's face.

"Candy!"

As Jo switched Ben from her knees to the seat next to her, Lisa caught the glint of metal beneath the hem of the girl's skirt. She instantly bristled, "Joan, you can't have that."

"Have what?"

Lisa noticeably glanced at the girl's thigh.

"What, this?" Jo hitched up her short skirt to finger the slender blade belted around her upper thigh. "Ain't nothing wrong with a bit of protection. I don't like when the men get handsy."

"Crowley will not be happy."

"Won't be happy about what now?" A third voice, rasping softly with a familiar accent, interjected itself into the conversation.

Lisa turned her gaze to her boss, dressed immaculately as always, and weighed the pros and cons of covering for the new girl. Before she could do little more than part her lips, Crowley pinned her with a firm look. "Don't waste my time, darling."

Lisa pressed her lips together and adverted her gaze to Jo.

"It's just a knife," Jo indignantly drawled.

"A knife," Crowley repeated as lips quirked into a brief smile.

Lisa had worked around Crowly long enough to know the subtle signs of danger. The twitch in his otherwise genial smile was one of them. She tried to catch Jo's eye, to warn the girl to put tongue to cheek, but to no avail.

"Yeah, a knife, is there a problem with that?"

"Little bird," Crowley toned patiently. "If I hear about you so much as flashing that little toad sticker at any of my clients, I will allow them to fillet you with it. Do I make myself clear?"

Jo sullenly glared, but after a tense moment she bared her thigh and unlatched the blade. She slammed the leather and metal against the vanity.

"Wonderful," Crowley clipped before turning his eyes to Lisa. "Be sure to paint her up, I don't want her looking homely."

Crowley departed, pushing aside the heavy drop of curtain separating the stage from the dressing room. For a moment the business in the front room hit them in a cadence of boots and voices. There was no show tonight, but some of Crowley's clients were arriving as the evening drew to a close. All likes of men were filtering in as the sign-ups for the tournament tomorrow. Some with wealth to support a simple fancy of enjoying a few rounds of poker. Others were men looking to get lucky.

The only one making a profit out of all of this was Crowley.

"The nerve of that sack of shit." Jo cursed.

"Sack of shit," Ben echoed.

"Ben!" Lisa softly snapped at her son, then turned the disapproving look on the grinning girl. "And _you_ need to learn to hold your tongue or you're like to lose it in this city. Crowley is one of the better men you could work for as long as you don't piss him off. Mind yourself, or you'll become just another harlot, willing to spread your legs for a bottle of red eye."

"That," Jo stated as she rose to replace the garter worn blade around her upper thigh. "Will never be me."

"This town has a way of whittling people down. Don't fool yourself," Lisa suspected her words fell on deaf ears. It pained her in a way. When she looked at Joanna, Lisa was reminded of younger years. She used to be just as head strong, reckless, and didn't give a damn what anyone said and felt all the world was within her grasp. Yet when she had found her belly swelling with child and no husband to aid her, Lisa had finally opened her eyes, looked back on her path so far and realized what a reckless fool she'd been.

A sharp inhale from Joanna drew Lisa from her inner musings. The blonde had wandered over to the curtain to gaze out at the floor, and judging by the gasp still parting on her lips, she looked as if she had seen a ghost. Curiosity perked, Lisa moved up alongside the younger woman to peer out across the floor. She didn't see what Jo saw, but hardly needed to when a breathless _Dean_ fell from the girl's lips.

Lisa's gaze honed in on the other woman, her expression hardening for a moment as she inwardly bristled from a stab of jealousy. Her dark eyes went back out to the room to frantically scan for the truth. It couldn't be the same Dean, but sure enough her gaze hinged on the familiar face paying a man behind a table - signing up for the poker tournament. The bastard. He had turned tail three years ago and he had some nerve showing his face again.

"Jo," Lisa toned innocently. "Would you mind taking Ben back to Mrs. Tanner?"

When the blonde left, Lisa returned to gazing out at the handsome vagabond.

* * *

Dean finished writing out both Bobby's and Sam's name in the most legible print he could manage. The man across the table took a good chunk of his bills as entry fee, leaving Dean to frown over the few papers he had left. It wouldn't be enough for three rooms, which meant he would have to wait until the rest of his entourage arrived - with more money - before settling in for the night.

That shouldn't be a problem.

Swiping off his hat, Dean slid a hand through his hair as he battled against the urge to scan the room for a familiar face. He wouldn't be here, Dean told himself and forced his gaze to the bar. A drink to pass the time. Dean licked the corner of his lips but his feet didn't move with the casual ease he normally possessed. Instead, seemingly against his will, Dean's gaze wandered from one face to another. His attention wavered briefly on a man with dark hair and pale eyes, but continued on when the man's face was otherwise unfamiliar.

Dean ruefully rubbed at his eyes in attempt to rid himself of the phantom he was chasing in the corner of his eyes. It made him angry at himself that he couldn't just write it off. Castiel made it clear enough that he wanted nothing to do with him, so why couldn't Dean just forget about the angel?

Maybe with enough booze...

The hunter only took a couple strides toward the polished bar when a cocked hip jutted into his path. It was almost accidental, as if one of the ladies in the room had taken a step back and hadn't seen him there. Dean stopped on the spot to avoid a collision and his gaze followed the curve of the woman's hip, up the smooth arch of her back accented by the tightly laced bodice. Before his eyes caught her profile Dean already knew who it was that had halted his progress toward the bar.

His heart sank as a smile spread across his lips, "Lisa."

"Dean," There was just enough contempt in the single word to make Dean's smile falter. "What a sight for sore eyes. How long as it been now?"

"A while," Dean replied smoothly.

"A while," The way she repeated the word, and smile just a touch wider, lead Dean to believe she was pissed. Women were odd that way. Dean had been involved with his fair share of women to pick up on the subtle hints. The long bits of read between the lines because I'm pissed at you, but I'm not going to tell you and just want you to figure it out yourself. Yeah, he had heard those tones enough in his years to recognize what it meant. "I think it's been _three years_, Dean."

"Ah now, don't be acting like I ran out on you. I seem to recall being threatened with a noose the last time I was here."

Lisa's expression cracked and the hurt furrowed into her features, "_Three years_, Dean."

"I know Lisa, I know.. " Ever the disappointment to the world.

"Well," Lisa glanced off somewhere over her shoulder before reaching out to lay her hand on his forearm. Her fingers curled, lightly squeezing. "You're here now. How about.. "

Her lips spread in a slow smile and a spark lit up in her dark eyes. The playful mischief in the look reminded Dean why this woman had caught his eye all those years ago. Aside from her ample curves. They had spent two weeks together and those days had been some of Dean's best. There had been a time when Dean had thought he'd been ready to hang up his hat and continue on, carefree, with Lisa.

It had been fun, no argument there, yet when trouble came Dean's way he didn't think twice before jumping into the saddle and riding off with his brother. The weeks following were spent hunting, roughing it town to town without a backward glance. There had been no pain (disregarding the physical kind that resulted from being tossed around like a ragdoll from said hunted monsters). No pain, not even an ache in his heart, about having left - about leaving Lisa behind. When Dean reflected on those two weeks, the memories were remembered fondly. Often recalled when Dean needed to relieve tension by use of his hand..

"How about you buy me a drink and we can catch up on old times."

A tempting offer, and maybe just the thing Dean needed to take his mind away from troubled thoughts. So he smiled and canted his head toward the bar in silent invitation. Lisa accepted with a wide smile and lead the way. The sashay of hips were no doubt for Dean's benefit as he trailed behind her.

They settled down, Dean on a stool and Lisa standing beside him. Her thighs brushed against his, and she further closed the distance by resting an arm along his shoulders. He should have felt like a million bucks; beautiful woman at his side, a drink in his hand. Yet his shoulders itched beneath the weight of her arm and he couldn't shake off the feeling that the action was done to keep him pinned down.

Part of it was knowing that she wanted him to stay, but staying meant walking away from everything else. He'd have to part ways with Sam, and although he'd likely get to see his brother at least once a years, it wouldn't be the same. There also was the hunting. It was the only thing Dean really knew, and knew how to do well. It defined him as a man. Dean couldn't see himself being anywhere else but in the saddle tracking down his latest hunt. It all came at a cost, but Dean knew without a doubt in his mind that he couldn't completely sever himself from hunting.

Dean swallowed down the shot of liquor and savored the burn in his throat. His mind was stretched in several different directions with idle wonders, but even as Lisa stood next to him and gifting him the best view of her bust, Dean found himself staring through her and quietly wondering if Castiel would like hunting. He already knew the angel had a history of tracking down, and killing, bad men. It wasn't too far of a leap in logic to believe Castiel would enjoy hunting monsters. A fond, thoughtful smile slid across Dean's tanned features.

"Come with me."

Lisa was tugging at his hand, drawing the hunter out of his wayward thoughts. Dean didn't rise from his seat.

"I want to show you something," There was a familiar hinting in her smile. Dean glanced behind her, to the direction she wanted to lead him. The curtains to the backstage caught his attention. Their first romp had occurred back there one late night on a bed made up of their own discarded garments and a thin blanket found tucked in a nearby trunk. It should have been all the motivation he needed to stand up and happily make his way to a quiet corner with the dark haired beauty.

Dean surprised Lisa, and himself, when he leaned in opposition to her pull.

"I'm pretty beat from the road," Dean covered with an easy smile even thought a cold spot settled in his stomach. "And I need to meet up with my brother and Uncle."

Lisa's features contorted, first confused, then a shutter of desperation before she hid it all behind a confident smile. "It won't take long."

The haunted look on Lisa's face as he turned away to leave stayed with Dean all the way out onto the streets. He only made it a dozen or so strides before his feet felt too heavy to lift. He stood, planted, and blankly swept his gaze over the street ahead of him. His toes curled inside of his shoe as if he could feel the packed dirt beneath the soles of his boots. Fingers stretched and curled in the open air as Dean asked again and again - what was he doing?

Moving forward, always moving forward and never looking back.

This time Dean did.

Shifting his stance, Dean cast a backwards glance over his shoulder. Lisa stood on the boardwalk of the gambling hall, leaning against the post of the awning. Her eyes were fixed on him and her colored lips set in a mild frown. It would be easy, Dean told himself, to go back there. He could pick up right where they left off because it was evident that Lisa was willing to do just that, as if she had been waiting all this time for him to walk back into her life.

It was a chance at something normal. Dean would have to lie, but he'd been wearing a mask for the majority of his life. By now it fit comfortably onto his features. At times Dean felt it was pinned there with rail road spikes, any removing it would be too painful. His smile felt more and more thin as the years passed. But he could continue on donning a lie. It wouldn't kill him - physically. On the inside, eh, no one really saw what was going on behind the mask. They saw what they wanted to see, and lies were often more appealing than the truth.

It wasn't meant for him - a normal life. Apologizing for that was as absurd as expecting someone to believe that Dean hunted monsters for a living. Dean could never tell her how sorry he was that he couldn't be the man she wanted him to be.

Shifting his gaze to the road ahead of him, Dean stepped forward.

Sam and Bobby didn't ride into town until well after sunset. Dean had ended up purchasing the last available room in the Inn he preferred. Bobby hadn't been kidding when he said Crowley had invited every big-wig east of Dodge. Dean had sat on the boardwalk, nursing a single glass of malt liquor and watching the populace of Dodge grow by the hour. Senators, Ladies, gunslingers, vagabonds much like himself. There were a few faces that Dean was certain he had seen etched onto wanted posters. Mostly Dean had looked over the various faces wondering who might be an Angel, who might be hiding a brand of wings underneath their clothing.

None of them were Castiel.

"Hey," Sam greeted while adjusting the saddle bags burdened over his shoulders.

"Hey," Dean sullenly replied.

Sam's brows rose with a familiar concern, "Everything go alright?"

"Yeah," The older brother sipped at his drink before finally turning his hazel eyes up to Sam. "You n'Bobby are all set."

"You didn't sign yourself up?"

Dean grunted - as if he needed to dig himself into a further debt with Crowley. "I figured someone would have to go after this Bella chick if you guys end up stuck in the middle of a game."

"He can't play worth a shit anyway," Bobby jabbed as he passed them by.

Apparently when Dean stood and quietly followed his Uncle inside without a returning jab, it was an alarming set of actions. Dean earned an over the shoulder glance from his Uncle, and a troubled peak of eyebrows from Sam. Clearly those two had been _talking_ during their ride to Dodge. Dean felt the beginnings of fingers curling around the crook of his elbow and swung to meet his brother's questioning look. He mustered up a lazy smile, "The train ride wasn't as fun as I thought it would be."

Dean didn't know why he didn't just open up and tell his brother right then and there about his encounter with Castiel, or even about Lisa. The topics were brushed aside with a small lie, and because of it Dean felt sick. He should be able to be more honest with Sam, but the words wouldn't even form coherently. The uneasy feeling related to the idea of talking it out with Sam prevented Dean from cementing anything in spoken words. Hell, he couldn't even come to an honest conclusion in his own mind.

Aside from bitterly concluding that he was seriously fucked up.

Dean threw back the rest of his drink before following Bobby up the stairs. He handed off the room key to his Uncle and shouldered the wall next the door as the man struggled with the lock. Movement down the hall drew Dean's gaze, and the hunter felt his heart skip and his mind go numb. It was just there for a second, the flicker of a phantom, then it was gone the next. Just a man stepping into his own room, but Dean's mind reeled at the brief glimpse of a tan overcoat.

"Dean?"

Hazel eyes stiffly move over to the peer his Uncle set on him, "Yeah?"

"You went all pale n'stiff," Bobby muttered while glancing down the empty hall. "You see someth'n I don't?"

Dean shook his head, another lie already at his lips, "Nope."

His Uncle grunted as he opened the door and lead them inside. He muttered something under his breath about the state of the room before throwing his stuff near one of the two beds. Dean sat on the foot of the other, leaving Sam to scowl and take up residency on the folding cot Dean had requested. It was either that or someone would be sleeping on the floor, so Sam could keep the disgruntled looks to himself.

It wasn't long before the other two were lightly snoring, exhausted from their long ride. Dean laid on his back and stared up at the ceiling. As much as he tried to trace the wood grains back and forth along the boards, sleep wouldn't come. He felt oddly alert despite the late hour. His mind was on the room down the hall. It was probably just his mind playing tricks, seeing something there because it's what he wanted to see. It wasn't Castiel, Dean firmly told his mind that refused to listen to reason.

It wouldn't hurt to make sure, would it?

There was nothing there. Nothing.

Castiel wasn't real.

But he _was_ - Sam had met him. Dean couldn't have fabricated that - or could he?

Dean couldn't shut down the internal questioning. The springs in mattress creaked as he sat up. He waited a long moment, staring through the dark at his bare feet against the wooden floor. There were a lot of things in Dean's life that he could walk away from, and it was driving him up the walls that this issue with Castiel wasn't one of those things. It wasn't long before Dean rose and crossed the room with soft steps. The door creaked just as audible as the springs, and as the light from the hall flooded in through the crack, the hunter missed the reflection of the light in the eyes of his younger brother watching from across the room.

He pulled the door close as he left.

* * *

_**A/N: **Once upon a time I had this grand idea of writing a chapter from Lisa's perspective, that even though I don't much care one way or another about her I was going to make this interesting scene between her and Jo, with a splash of Crowley to add spice. As I started writing it, I hated it. To try and inspire myself to keep going with the chapter, because despite its filler-like status, it adds an important element for future chapters, but to try to keep with my original idea, I spliced Lisa's portion in between slabs of Dean._

_Then Dean turned into a mope and.. I hated it more. I wanted to just kick Dean and tell him to get his shit together._

_I also conclude that I'm not good at writing female characters. I wanted to make Lisa something of a level-headed woman that knows how to hold her own and play to her strengths. Jo, and you have to know I really like Jo, was suppose to be somewhat childish in comparison. I don't know if many of you remember when Jo first came on the series (it seems Jo only gets remembered is when she died, or when she was a ghost) but when she first was there.. she really was something of an obstinate brat. (and I liked her for it!) I don't know how the two came out, but I feel that I missed my mark.  
_

_I think the only part I liked was Crowley casually threatening Jo._

_Just so you guys know, Lisa was trying to take Dean back to show him Ben, not jump his bones. Easy to connect the dots, Dean left three years ago, Ben is three years old. 'Nuff said._

_It'll get better next chapter. I promise good things will be in the next chapter. I know this chapter was likely something of a disappointment. Please forgive me, don't abandon me. :(_


	20. Falling Again

**Chapter Twenty: Falling Again  
By: **Zavijah

Knuckles hovered over the battered wood of the room door, Dean drew his arm back to knock, but there his resolve wavered, cracked, and fell apart until his arm once again lowered to hang limp at his side. He repeated the process several times but his fist never made even the smallest of contact with the wood. An overwhelming sense of doubt kept his feet shuffling as if to flee at any second, but sheer stubbornness rooted him outside the room he's seen the man, the one wearing the tan duster, enter.

One knock and he would know the truth to what he saw. Just a firm rap of knuckles against the wood and Dean could put his anxious nerves to rest. Yet the idea of the door swinging open and having to meet those storm blue eyes made Dean twist in discomfort. What was he suppose to say to the man he had kissed, not once, but twice and on purpose? And what should he expect in reaction from the man that had left him without a word of explanation?

Nothing.

And he had nothing to say in return.

Dean's arm began to rise again, but he quickly shot it back down to his side and spun away from the door. He took one step away before pivoting back around with a curse and taking a knee in front of the door with his lock picking tools between his fingers. It was late and Dean felt it was safe to assume the occupant of the room was asleep. All he needed was a quick look and he would be able to put it behind him. One peek and he'd be satisfied.

The lock was simple and turned easily under Dean's manipulations. He slipped the picks into his back pocket, stood and curled his hand around the brass knob. He could do this. If he could bust in a door and take down the latest monster of the week, he should be able to quietly sneak into a room for a simple look. He had broken into rooms for worse things. With a silent prayer for the hinges to not scream, Dean eased the door open.

The room was dark save for an oil lamp near the bed that had been turned down as low as the flame could go without snuffing itself. The wood creaked softly as Dean edged into the room. His gaze fixed intently on the bundle on the bed, but as he got close he realized he was looking at a pack and not a person bundled beneath the covers. The realization came too late, because as soon as Dean registered what he saw, he felt the cold press of steel to the back of his neck.

"Whoa there," Dean voiced in the same good ol' boy tone he used on the vagrants in the canyon. "Not looking for a fight."

The pistol barrel withdrew an inch, "Dea–"

The hunter took advantage of the opening. He spun around, catching the man's pistol hand to knock the barrel aside. With practiced ease he twisted it free of the man's hand, brought it up - but didn't get to aim it due to the small complication of the fact he was staring down the barrel of a second pistol.

"Dean."

This time the voice held a hint of exasperation, but it was the scratchy quality to the low decibel that caught Dean's actual attention. His heart happily jigged against his ribs. He looked beyond the side arm being held steady at his face and took in the shadowed figure that had gotten the drop on him. Even in the dark those blue eyes glittered like sapphires. "Hey Cas, fancy meeting you here."

The grimace from the angel was an audible reaction. Castiel pushed the door shut, turning the lock back over before crossing the room to brighten the oil lamp. "What are you doing here, Dean."

The grin could not be wiped from Dean's face, "Oh I'm just out for a friendly stroll."

The soft light bathed Castiel in a gentle, orange glow with shadows that exaggerated his disapproving scowl. Dean took in the angel with a series of quick glances. Shirt, pants; dressed down but not yet retired to bed. The book near the lamp told Dean all he needed to know about what Castiel had been doing for the last few hours. He must have noticed Dean's stalling outside the door and had taken pre-emptive measures to not be caught flat-footed.

Dean had never been so pleased to have a gun pointed at him, "Nice moves, by the way, you have some fast hands."

Castiel's glower only intensified, "Dean, you should not be here."

A smirk tugged challengingly at the corner of his lips, "Well I'm already here, what are you going to do about it?"

One pistol was holster on the belt hung over the post of the bed and Castiel stalked over to Dean to take the second one. Dean held on tight, smiling wide to counter Castiel's displeased expression. After a couple tugs, Dean yielded. Castiel looked the barrel over before fixing Dean with a firm look, his dark eyes seeming to flicker with the single flame. "I will ask you to leave, and I suspect that you will refuse."

"That's a safe bet," Dean leaned against the wall, resolving to stay there to better ignore the temptation to trail after Castiel like an excited puppy. It was already bad enough he was border-line stalking the angel. A pang of self doubt knocked his smile down a notch and drew his gaze to the inanimate fixtures in the room. "You find your man yet?"

"No," Castiel answered in a resigned way as he leaned against the table on the far side of the room. "You really–"

"Well what's his name," Dean cut in a little more forcefully than necessary. He cleared his throat to cover it up, "Maybe I can help you out."

Castiel's drew in a deep breath, but Dean didn't give him the chance to start in on the bullshit he had begun on the train. It only took three quick strides to cross the room and draw up in front of the Angel. He didn't touch the other man, but for all the darkness in between, Dean wasn't sure where his body ended and Castiel began. The lamp only illuminated a quarter of Castiel's face, but it was enough to brighten the storm blue eyes silently questioned him. Dean's fingers twitched, struck with the desire to rise and draw along the other man's cheek.

An urge he resisted by curling his hand into a fist and keeping it low against his leg, "Don't give me that crap about it not being safe. You _know_ what I hunt. Compared to werewolves, wendigoes–"

"Wendigoes?"

"Yeah," Dean felt a smile slip across his features. "One of the uglier sons of bitches you'll ever see in your life. They snack on people, and the best way to get rid of them is to burn 'em. Not as easy as it sounds. This one time Sam and I nearly burned down a whole damn forest trying to get this one bastard."

Dean chuckled, the sound dying down when he realized he wasn't talking to a fellow hunter so the humor of the situation was likely lost on Castiel. Dean nibbled on the inside of his lip. There were things he'd love to teach Castiel about hunting monsters. After knowing how Castiel handled a ghost for the first time, Dean wanted to see him up against something like a shifter with nothing but a silver knife - just to see the thrill of the hunt written all over Castiel's face and body. The adrenaline rush was often better than sex. A successful hunt _and_ sex was ever better. One day Dean was going to work pie into the whole affair and have himself the perfect day.

Wait, he had been trying to say something but instead had gotten all distracted about thoughts of pie and sex.

Pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand, Dean set his other hand on the table to better anchor himself to the here and now. "What I'm trying to say is.. let me help you. I'm good at hunting. It's what I do for a living and I would feel a lot more comfortable knowing I could, you know... be there to watch your back."

Castiel fiddled with the barrel of the second pistol. His head tilted forward in such a way, with a furrowed brow, that Dean couldn't see the man's eyes, which cut him off from being able to read even a fraction of the thoughts Castiel was batting around in his head. It probably wasn't anything Dean would like to hear. And while he wasn't normally a patient man, Dean stood idle as Castiel worked through his thoughts. His patience may have had something to do with enjoying the play of the light and shadows dancing along the edges of Castiel's features, the flickering light sliding down the line of neck when Castiel turned his face away..

"While I appreciate your concern," Castiel carefully set the gun on the table, his hand lingering over the hilt. "I don't want to put you in danger because of my affairs."

Dean's gaze lowered, skipping along the seam of Castiel's buttons until his eyes shifted to gun on the table - to the small distance between their hands. "You're doing worse by letting me go in blind on this."

"You shouldn't be 'going in' at all."

"Don't you think it's a little late for that?"

Castiel softly sighed, his head nodding faintly before his blue eyes swiveled up to meet Dean's gaze. The smile on his lips was equally faint, almost unperceivable, but on Castiel's usually stoic features, it made all the difference. Dean's eyelids lowered as he simply took it in as a whole - the quiet expression that made the world around him warm and comforting. Castiel's gaze dipped, his tongue passed along his lower lip and Dean found his attention snared by the movement.

"You are a very stubborn man."

The words, soft and whispering, drew Dean in more than to better hear the low timbres of Castiel's graveled voice. Dean teetered on the spot, having caught himself leaning toward Castiel, and he drew back with his bottom lip snared between teeth. He was quick to put forth a smile to cover any show of awkwardness, "Then you should know that I'm not going to leave until you give me an answer."

Castiel smirked.

Dean mirrored the expression while lightly prodding at Castiel's chest, "And this time you're not going to slip me a funny drink."

The rumbling chuckle, almost inaudible, from Castiel made Dean feel that ridiculous sensation of warm and fuzzy all over, like he wanted to do anything and everything to see that smile and hear that laugh again. The expressions were so fleeting on Castiel's features, fading back behind the impassive shroud Castiel had cloaked around himself. The barrier was thick, almost tangible from the layers the years had put on, but those small glimpses of what was beyond the veil was making Dean's heart do little cartwheels - or attempts at cartwheels that ended with his heart flopping onto his stomach and making him a bundle of jittery nerves.

The nervous flutter in his chest only intensified as Castiel shifted and Dean felt fingers graze along the top of his hand. Dean's lips parted on a breathe that caught in his lungs. Before he could convince himself that it had been accidental, Castiel repeated the action. The touch firmer this time, lingering, and Dean didn't understand how something as simple as a caress of fingers - on his hand of all places - could be so stimulating. They had kissed on the train, like there was no way Dean could deny what they had exchanged with equal parts tongue and fingers mussing through hair, yet for some strange reason Dean found the gentle pass of fingers to be more intimate.

Dean stared at their hands, his still flat on the table while Castiel's fingertips made small motions over his travel worn skin. He turned his palm up toward the touch, fascinated by the almost ticklish sensation it gave him to have Castiel's fingers trail over his inner palm instead. His own fingers curled lightly around Castiel's...

He should be with Lisa right now, not here.

A traitorous thought and Dean hated himself for it. It sprung from the uncertainty toward the unfamiliar territory he was exploring in regards to Castiel. Lisa was familiar to him, and Dean knew that with her he wouldn't feel so flustered. Despite his inner faltering, Dean closed his hand around Castiel's in a gentle squeeze of acceptance. He was grateful he didn't have to say anything, that a returning touch and a willingness to meet the intensity in those storm blue eyes spoke well enough for him. In fact it was better said that way, with raw emotion charging like static electricity between them rather than words failing to express what Dean couldn't even put into a coherent thought.

Castiel edged closer, his chin tilted upward. Even in the dark Dean knew the signs, and he was responding well before his mind clued him to the fact he was sharing his third kiss with Castiel. Dean's eyes closed before their lips made contact; sweet and slow with gentle probes of tongue curling around the swell of lips. It was their best kiss so far. Dean palmed the line of Castiel's jaw, the dark scruff prickling against his hand as he firmly drew the smaller man into a deeper kiss.

Their fingers threaded together.

The connection between them existed long before their hands touched, or even before Castiel had surprised him with a kiss beneath the blanket of the stars. It had been when Dean first met those vivid blue eyes in the murk of the Saloon and saw the long, dark and twisted road behind the sullen bartender. Knew even then it was a path similar to his own; a beaten path of dirt and blood, of soldiering on with a pack laden with self-appointed burdens. Their eyes had met, blue melding with green, and the link had been forged.

And it was only getting stronger.

Castiel's fingers slid free of his and Dean broke the kiss when he felt those missing fingers working on the top buttons of his shirt. Dean studied Castiel's downcast features through half-lidded eyes. His own hand trailed feather-light down the side of Castiel's neck, rounding over his shoulder and sliding down his arm to settle against his elbow. Whether the move was to still Castiel's actions, or encourage him, Dean couldn't really say. He was curious, that much he could attest to. His heart steadily picked up pace as he wondered how far Castiel was going to lead him into uncharted territory.

Dean's shirt lapels were pushed aside, and Castiel's drew his fingers along the curves of the exposed collar bones with a deliberate slowness, as if memorizing how hot Dean's skin felt beneath his fingertips, or how much Dean's breath deepened at the simple touch. If Dean thought fingers caressing his hand felt stimulating, it had nothing on the soft lips that were finding purchase against the side of his neck. Lips that slid down, making his pulse spike when the tip of tongue casually flicked over his vulnerable jugular. Dean shivered and the breath he had been slowly drawing in shuttered out of his lungs. His hands flew up, catching Castiel's wrists in a light grasp.

Castiel drew his lips away, "I can stop."

"No," Hell no. Dean rubbed his thumbs against the inside of Castiel's wrists. "Just - just give me a sec."

Because at the moment, it felt like his heart was going to burst through his ribs. Castiel smoothed one hand against the front of Dean's chest, over his racing heart. His expression became overly pensive in the soft light. A glimmer of concern caught in the wavering light from the oil lamp. Dean noticed and chuckled softly, "What's the look for - are you worried my heart is going to explode?"

For a moment Dean could have sworn he saw he saw a glint of fear pass through Castiel's eyes. There certainly was a crease between his brows. Dean's head tilted, hinting at his own confusion, but he hid it behind an easy smile. He released Castiel's hands in favor of reaching for the man's shirt buttons.

"I guess not," Castiel's voice sounded distant. His fingers splayed over Dean's chest, feeling his heart beat. "You have a strong heart.."

Dean tried not to laugh if only because Castiel sounded so serious. The unusual compliment would be chalked up to Castiel's peculiar personality. It may have been Castiel's attempt at a flirtatious comment for all Dean could surmise. He accepted it, just as he was coming to terms with his attraction toward the man. There was genuine fondness behind his feelings that he normally found absent in these situations. It made him want to take in every moment, to marvel at the skin he unveiled to the orange glow of the lamp.

His fingers passed over the small cluster of scar tissue near the joint of Castiel's shoulder. It was fascinating, the difference between the male and female body. Women were soft, smooth, and a blemish - such as a scar - on the skin would be viewed as an imperfection; something to touch and be sorry about what had ever caused the pain. On a man the scars were like badges of honor; a testament of survival from a fight or a hunt. Dean's lips found the scar with a light kiss before murmuring, "Gun shot?"

"Arrow."

The images of Castiel pinned down and exchanging fire with dog soldiers made Dean smile. He loved a good fight, and picturing Castiel taking a hit and stubbornly fighting on with an arrow protruding from his shoulder was alluring. At the moment it did well to send heat pooling low in his abdomen. Or maybe that was the fact that Castiel was pulling his shirt loose from where it had been tucked into his waist. "You fought against a bunch of squaws?"

"I fought against many different people in my life.."

There was reluctance to elaborate in Castiel's words, but Dean didn't take much notice as he was struck with the desire to divest Castiel of clothing to find every little knick and scar on the man's body; drink it in, touch it with his fingers and lips, and know every story of battle behind the marks. He started with Castiel's shirt while sliding out of his own when Castiel worked it off his arms. Both shirts were carelessly shucked aside and Dean wasted no time in bringing their bared chests together. Castiel's body firm against his own; strong, hard..

Dean claimed Castiel's lips with vigor, glad to be met with equal zeal in return. The heat grew between them, their bodies swaying back and forth as the other pressed for more contact. When Castiel's hands dipped to Dean's waist, fussing with his belt, Dean leaned back into the wall. He gazed down the line of his body, watching Castiel hands work open his pants. The sight alone turned him on, and when Castiel began to kiss a path down his abs while simultaneously sliding his pants lower, Dean couldn't stop the sound of wanting that escaped him. It was low - part growl, part moan - and served as all the encouragement Castiel needed to lightly sink his teeth into the taunt muscle of his lower abdomen. It wasn't painful, and the harsh nip of teeth ended with the soft press of lips, but it was enough to draw a surprised gasp from Dean.

"Jesus Cas," Dean whispered as his hands found Castiel's shoulders for support. As his fingers touched against the brand of angel wings spanning across Castiel's shoulder blades, he drew his touch along the scars in fascination. He'd wanted to touch the brand since the first time he glimpsed it.

He liked it.

Castiel suddenly rose, and Dean was just wondering if he had done something wrong – he didn't know the first thing about what he should do with another man – when Castiel smiled at him. The smaller man tugged at the sides of his open fly and slowly drew him toward the bed. Dean's stomach fluttered nervously as he was made to turn and sit on the bed's edge. Strangely he didn't remember being this nervous during his first time with a girl.

Castiel was pulling off Dean's boots, both of them dropping to the floor before leaning over him. The kiss was coming, but Castiel paused when he noted Dean's hesitation to meet him half-way. He slowly drew back, "Dean?"

"M'fine," Dean reached up to draw Castiel down into a kiss, only to have the man withdraw further instead. The scrutiny Castiel pinned on him made Dean duck his head. He trailed his hands down the front of Castiel's chest, catching on the little nicks of scars he wanted to further explore. His hands settled on the points of Castiel's hipbones and gently tugged the other man to stand closer. "I'm just.."

Dean dipped his head closer to Castiel's navel, needing to assure himself that he was okay with it. He deeply inhaled the other man's musk before his lips tenderly met the heated flesh just above the hem of Castiel's pants. Once, twice, then he lightly nipped at the dark trail of hair leading down and below. Dean's hand finished the path his lips didn't, sliding down and over the front of Castiel's crotch, cupping over the hardness there. He put pressure on the touch, groping Castiel's growing desire. The baser noise that Castiel emitted in response was all the convincing Dean needed to know that he wanted it. If not that, the responding twitch in his own groin was more than enough.

"Just _what_, Dean.." Castiel murmured even as he deliberately rocked his hips against Dean's hand.

Did he really have to say it?

Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel's waist and gazed up at his darkened features. The angel easily met his gaze, hazy with lust but still on the side of inquisitive. Dean didn't really want to ruin the mood, but it didn't seem like Castiel was going to let it slid. Dean softly cleared his throat as he muttered, "Never done this before — with a man."

"I know."

The matter-of-fact answer wasn't what Dean was expecting. What did it even mean that Castiel _knew_, and what exactly did he _know_ anyway. Dean's mouth formed over words he couldn't quite make into proper words. It didn't take Castiel long to press his lips to Dean's and stop the attempt at further speech. Dean didn't protest; he was much more comfortable with doing and not stopping to analyze each step of the process. Too much thinking would get him in trouble, and he was a creature of instinct.

Castiel pressed into him, guiding Dean to lie down while he climbed over top of him. Dean's hands slid around Castiel's waist, pulling at the smaller man's body before boldly trekking down to squeeze his ass. Castiel's hips ground against his and the pressure made Dean's desire go into over drive. It had been a while since his last tumble between the sheets. He often went through lengthy dry spells between boughs of hunting. That was what he blamed, the dry spell, for the flush on his cheeks and his erection that stood at full salute once Castiel finished the task of divesting him of his last piece of clothing. His body was betraying his eagerness despite having only exchanged a few touches. Castiel just had an influence over him – and had ever since the beginning.

When Dean had stood outside the room, shifting nervously from one foot to another, it never crossed his mind that he'd find himself lying naked on Castiel's bed. But he wanted this, and he had the sneaking suspicion that he had wanted it for a long time. Yet having never found himself attracted to another man, Dean translated his feeling into aggression toward the dark haired man. _This_ – the tantalizing draw of Castiel's hands down his body – felt so much better than finding reasons to be angry at Castiel.

Dean exhaled a portion of his earlier frustration as Castiel wrapped a hand around his hardened length and began to stroke. The world faded away as Dean's mind became solely focus on the attention being lavished on his more sensitive regions. His lips parted on a sharp inhale when moist lips closed over the head of his cock. His hand found Castiel's mussed hair, fingers threading with the dark strands in silent encouragement. Castiel didn't need much incentive before sliding his lips down Dean's length, almost taking him fully into the warmth of his mouth in one confident move.

He wasn't new at this, Dean idly thought to himself as he savored the bobbing motion of Castiel's head he could feel with the hand tangled in the man's hair. He lightly urged Castiel on each time the man went down. Castiel's hand was still firmly stroking the base of his erection while his lips and tongue worked the rest of his heated flesh. Dean had been with countless women, but there were very few that could come close to what Castiel was doing to him. And never had one trekked a finger back to pass over his entrance. Dean's body tensed at the unfamiliar sensation that sent jolts of lightning up his spine. The finger retreated and Dean felt conflicted about whether or not he wanted the action to be repeated.

It was difficult to remain indecisive when Castiel's mouth and hands were quickly working him toward the brink. Dean relaxed, letting his legs widen further, giving Castiel full access. A sense of vulnerability washed over Dean, chased with the feeling of trust he had for Castiel. He never required it from women. This, however, _this_ was not something Dean could jump in with both feet and blindfolded and not care about where he'd land. He was characteristically reckless in his decisions, but this was different. So different, and so felt so god damn fucking good.

When Castiel's fingers again brushed over his entrance, Dean didn't fight against it. He embraced the sensation that it sent coursing through his veins, drawing a soft moan from his lips. The collection of different sensations, all wonderful jolts of pleasure, was doing well to push Dean to the point of no return. He stalled in that moment of limbo, where he wanted to both slow down to prolong the feeling of bliss but also wanted to embrace the moment of gratification. Dean murmured a slur of incomprehensible words in attempt to make Castiel slow down – or was it to keep going. It was hard to speak. The only sound that wanted to come out of Dean's mouth were appreciative moans.

He didn't want it to end so soon—

Damn Castiel's mouth felt so fucking good—

"Nngh — stop," Dean finally grunted out as his hand moved from Castiel's hair to push at the man's shoulder. Dean lifted his head, his eyes opening to take in the moment; the flickering glow of light over Castiel's skin, the glisten of slickened flesh sliding out from between his lips. Dean almost came undone at the mere sight of it all. Even in the dim lighting Dean could see the sapphire glitter to Castiel's blue eyes. Castiel slowly stroked his member, causing Dean to tighten his fingers into the smaller man's shoulder in attempt to fight for control over his body.

"Wait," he strangled out before biting down on his own lip.

Castiel didn't heed his words, nor broke eye contact. His tongue drew along the underside of Dean's pulsing length, flattening and curling around the sensitive flesh just beneath the underside of the head. Dean quivered, his body shaking with the attempt at restraint before it was too late. A frustrated growl filled the room as Dean surrendered, his hips thrusting immodestly into Castiel's hand. It wasn't long before Dean's mind went blank, white washed and seized in the moment of pure pleasure as he came on his own stomach, the last of his euphoria milked over Castiel's knuckles.

Dean sank against the bed in what felt like the most perfect place to rest. He didn't want to move a muscle, or even open his eyes; just wanted to chase the tails of his orgasm that would lead him into a peaceful slumber. Dean hadn't even realized that Castiel had vacated the bed until the mattress dipped upon his return and a damp cloth passed over his stomach, cleaning up his spent mess. Dean shivered every nerve in his body still highly sensitive to touch. He caught Castiel's arms before the man could turn him into a writhing mess. Without thinking much of it, he pulled the smaller man down to curl his arms around him. It felt perfect.

He moved to plant a light kiss on the corner of Castiel's lips, but he attempt was dodged. Dean stirred into a more wakeful state, his gaze tracing inquisitively over the line of the angel's profile. He didn't know what that was about, nor did he like it. His fingers found the edge of Castiel's jaw and turned the angel back toward him to capture the kiss he had been denied. It took a moment before Castiel returned the affection, if only lightly. Castiel ducked his chin afterward, but to his credit he didn't extract himself from Dean's embrace.

"Stay."

Dean was surprise to find that it was not his voice that spoke the word, even though he had expressed it a couple of times in the past. Castiel had always been the one to leave, but this time it was the angel softly asking.

"Will you.. stay."

The pause Dean gave was only for a split second – the time it took for a bitterness slice through his conscious thoughts about how he should leave like Castiel had done to him after asking the man to stay. It faded quickly, and Dean was still far too comfortable to trouble himself with getting out of bed. It hadn't even crossed his mind as of yet.

"Just.. for the night."

Dean took notice of the timidity behind the words and pulled Castiel into a tighter hug before whispering next to his ear, "Yeah, Cas, I'll stay."

Belatedly, as Castiel moved to extinguish the oil lamp which cast the room into complete darkness, Dean realized he hadn't reciprocated the attention. A stir of nervousness once again rose as Dean's inexperience once again made him uncertain. He wasn't sure how to even start – especially when Castiel didn't appear to be expecting anything in return. The man was content to simply lie next to Dean once the sheets had been pulled back. The line between their bodies merged so they touched from the shoulders down to their intertwined legs. Yet Dean warred with himself over the issue for a long time in the quiet of the night. He felt partly ashamed for having come so soon (it had been a long stressful few weeks!), and for being a selfish lover.

At least until Castiel nose touched against his ear, "Go to sleep, Dean."

"Way ahead of you, Cas." Dean murmured in returned as his eyes fell to a close.

* * *

_**A/N: **__I hope it was worth the wait. I've never actually gone through with writing smut. I've thought about it, sure, but putting such thoughts onto paper always make me hesitate. I often prefer fade outs to avoid a scene becoming too graphic or tasteless. This scene is, well.. Dean is overly nervous since my version of him has never even entertained the idea of getting down and dirty with another man. It makes it a touch awkward from his perspective. Of course, now that the door is open.. there is much and more to be explored, to be learned. Also, totally note that Castiel never did answer Dean's earlier question. What a deceptive and evasive Angel he is. Anyway, the delay in my update is because my laptop is broken. After technicians coming over to 'fix' it, the problem only got worse until I finally had to just send it in to be fixed. Who knows if I'll be seeing it again anytime soon. In the meantime I pulled this computer out of storage to set up on the floor (my house is in a state of construction, so there isn't room for the computer desk at the moment) and ugh.. sitting on floor to write is awful. I'm actually really nervous about uploading this chapter. Erk..  
_

_Chapter title is taken from lyrics in the song Pretty Girl (The Way) by Sugar Cult_

_That's what you get for falling again  
You can never get him out of your head  
It's the way that he makes you feel  
It's the way that he kisses you  
It's the way that he makes you fall in love_


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